Shredding Destiny
by Ash9
Summary: sequel to Burning Bridges- "This hill is a sacred place. Do not cross into that ring, and warn the people away. They must not interrupt the work of the gods..."
1. Prologue

**Fic:** Shredding Destiny

**Characters:** Merlin/Arthur/Gwaine/...?

**Rating:** K+

**Disclaimer:** This is but another ode to the work of the fabulously talented Merlin creators and writers. I really don't mean to disrespect their work at all, just embellish and embroider their wonderful world and color it a little differently.

Big thanks go out to my beta, Eilonwyn, for her amazing, amazing editing!

* * *

_**Prologue**_

Something was wrong—not where the eyes of mortal men could see, but underneath, where the powers of the Old Ones and the beginnings of magic lay. Something was very, very wrong. The lesser gods whispered and soothed as they could, touching here and there, hoping to affect the events that were growing so far out of their control. Their stirrings nudged the greater gods, who rolled over in their slumber, causing tremors in the earth. Their sullen anger birthed dark clouds to stain the sky, mixing with the pungent smell of fertile land as the winds raced and the very foundations of the earth shuddered.

In a distant realm united to our own, the Ancient Trees shivered to their roots and gusts of wind disturbed the eternally calm waters of Lake Avalon. Voices cried out, so many that the greater gods fully awoke and cast their weary eyes across England. They did not like being tied to Time, forced to take note of the transient things that came and went too quickly to earn hate or love. But now the foundation of their existence, the magic that had birthed them, was sputtering and struggling for life. Awake and alarmed, they knew there was only one person with enough magic to awaken the Old Ones. Was it his time upon the earth already?

_Yes, _the lesser gods replied. _We were there._

They had witnessed the portents and followed the magic as it began to gather and seep into the form of a tiny mortal. Full of wonder, they had protected his mother as he grew and watched his birth with awe. They found it impossible to leave his side and so guarded his crib and mesmerized his bright blue baby eyes with feats of playful magic. His entire world danced with love for his gaze alone.

As he grew, it was more work than they had anticipated keeping him safe and helping him avoid the dangers that were so naturally drawn to one with so much magic. Soon enough, the lesser gods cast the net of their protection over all of Ealdor on his behalf, blessing the crops and the wells and constantly forcing the eye of the king away from this small community.

But then, as all men have done, Emrys grew, and left their circle of protection for the larger and more dangerous land of Camelot. Destiny had claimed him for its own; the lesser gods could but watch from a distance and content themselves to infuse his life with love when he returned home.

The greater gods knew the truth of the story, and immediately their gaze sharpened. Together, they turned their focus on the one person endowed with enough magic to end a world, if he so desired: Emrys. He was in grave danger, moving closer and closer to the moment when his magic would splinter like a shattered glass. With a cry that birthed quakes up and down the coast, the gods drew the tattered remnants of Destiny to their chests and began to influence the world once again.

They worked, as they always did, through the strength and compassion of men, giving a nudge here and there, illuminating truth and lending strength. But all the while, they felt such dread as they had never felt before, and feared the moment when they would have to directly interfere. Forcing a mortal vessel to hold the complete power of the gods was a perilous undertaking, but as events unfolded, it looked more and more necessary. The moment was drawing near when Emrys would hold the fate of the entire world in his hands.

The Old Ones could not take away that moment, nor persuade Emrys's enemy to relent—the vile deed was a certainty. Instead, they invested their hopes in the other mortal caught in Destiny's thin web of design. Protection ringed Camelot, surging up from below the ground and giving its King all the peace and all the time he needed to think, to render truth from deception, to grasp at things he could barely understand and in doing so, decide the fate of a nation.

Truth be told, he was in no way comfortable with this situation...


	2. Chapter 1

Arthur Pendragon lay motionless on his bed, glad to the bone be done with this day. His muscles were pleasantly sore from training, his mind was wearied from finding the best solutions to the problems of his people, and his wife beside him was beautiful, soft, and quiet. Yet despite all of these blessings, and partly because of them, he was miserable. Arthur closed his weary eyes, tired of fighting. No matter how much he exhausted himself, whenever his body was still, those horrible moments haunted him—so many horrible moments and all of them burned into his memory: the things he had said and done and the things Merlin had said and done in return, all those months ago.

_"Disintegrated? You can…kill?"_

_"Yes," Merlin said, his voice nearly a whisper, "but why is that so different from you using your sword?"…_

_"Then you killed my father!"_

_"No, no, Arthur—"_

_"You felt no guilt for your actions, no need to tell me that you had a role to play in my father's death, even while you stood by my side and—__**watched me grieve?**__"_

Arthur had spat more venomous words, poking holes in Merlin's stories and wounding him without mercy, using the knowledge years of friendship had taught him to cut into him as deeply as he could. For a time, Merlin had played the helpless victim, silent and meek. But in a breath all of that had changed. Arthur suddenly realized what all the silence had been for, all the secrets and all the hesitation and all the lies. Merlin's eyes had shifted from blue into blinding gold and Arthur had known, in that moment, that he had finally pushed Merlin too far.

How was one _supposed_ to respond when your best friend turned out to be…something elemental and wild and completely beyond your comprehension? Surely he could be forgiven for cowering in a corner, his bones turned to water and his sword on the ground.

But no—that was just an excuse, one Arthur had used often in those first horrible days, those first horrible moments after his world had imploded, just two months ago…

* * *

Arthur, King of Camelot, looked around his chambers in stunned confusion. He felt like something in his head had come unhinged and was flapping around madly. How was this possible? The gentlest man Arthur knew—the one who had challenged and changed Arthur's entire definition of what it meant to be a man, a friend, even a king—had been hiding evil magic somewhere behind that disarming smile of his.

Arthur shook his head, moving to unfasten the window latch. He pushed the window open, hoping to get the smell of charred bed out of his chambers. After blinking blankly at the courtyard for a long time, a question came to him. How stupid did he have to be to not notice that his constant companion was using magic every day, all the time, right under his nose?

The answer made his face burn with shame. What a fool he'd been! Hadn't he learned his lesson with Morgana? Agravaine? Gwen and Lancelot? Hadn't he learned not to trust anyone absolutely? Arthur almost punched the stone wall, but thought better of it. There were still eyes in his room.

"Leave me," Arthur said curtly to the guards who were, for some reason, determined to keep him safe now that the danger had removed itself from his room. "Let no one in until he arrives."

After they left his chambers, Arthur began pacing, his mind playing through the events Merlin had mentioned. Then he stopped. Wait—had he actually carried Merlin as Dragoon on his back to the castle? Arthur huffed out a furious breath. Yes, he had! He bent down and yanked the table back onto its feet. It was a good thing that Gwaine had gotten Merlin off a safe distance away or…

A cold chill ghosted over Arthur's skin as he saw again in his mind's eye the boy's altered voice, his shadowed, stony face and the fury unleashed in his power—the stuff of nightmares. Could someone with that much power ever be considered a "safe" distance away?

"Sire?"

Arthur turned to see Gaius standing uncomfortably in the doorway, his face drawn with suffering. _Good_. Arthur's face twisted in a painful combination of sarcasm, anger and good cheer. "And here is my faithful healer. Come in, Gaius." Arthur held out an arm toward the man and gestured him in. "I wanted you to see firsthand the wonderful job Merlin did in redecorating my chambers."

Gaius said nothing in return, and Arthur's anger began to fade. The old man was trembling, looking around in horror, his anguish multiplied by the devastation Merlin had wreaked in his anger. Still, he said nothing.

"Get him a chair," Arthur told one of the guards, "as all of mine seem to be wet at the moment."

As they waited for the guard to return, Arthur took a tour around the room, picking up the inkwell that had splashed its black contents all over the wall before mostly being washed away by the storm that had been conjured in his chambers…by Merlin with glowing, gold eyes. That image was not likely to leave him any time soon.

"Thank you, Jasper. Please close the door behind you. Let no one disturb us." The guard did as he was told. Gaius was seated now, but didn't look any more comfortable. "I won't insult your intelligence by asking if you knew that Merlin had magic—"

"No, sire," the old healer interrupted him quietly, "pardon me, but Merlin doesn't have magic. Merlin _is_ magic."

Arthur raised his eyebrows, interested despite himself. "There's a difference?"

"Sorcerers train in order to do magic. They learn spells to pull in power from the earth around them and release it in specific, prescribed methods. Merlin, however, is a warlock. His magic comes from inside himself, and he has had it since his earliest memories. It has always been a part of him."

"Yes, he used the same word—warlock. And you know this? This is possible?"

"Merlin's magic is instinctive, natural. It is like nothing I have ever seen before. I have seen him use nothing more than his will to seize and hold an object, with no spell in mind, as easily as you or I might use a hand. It is…an amazing thing. Asking him to get rid of his magic would be like asking him to cut off an arm. Even on pain of death, it would be impossible."

"He also claimed that he was the most powerful warlock who has ever lived and the most powerful who ever _will_ live."

Gaius sat back in his chair. "Did he? He's never said so before."

"It was one of the last things he said before he did all of this." Arthur gestured to the mess around him. "He didn't sound anything like himself, though. There was this feeling of…"

"Power?" Gaius asked.

Arthur nodded, at a loss to explain how Merlin's power had felt. There was a stir at the door. The guards were talking to someone. Arthur sighed. The one person he couldn't put off. "Excuse me, Gaius."

"Of course, sire."

Gwen was standing in the hallway, her eyes pleading with Arthur. "What's happened, Arthur? I don't understand. Where has Merlin gone?"

"Not here, Gwen." Arthur turned her away from the guards and gently guided her down the hallway. He gestured at the guards to stay in position.

"But Arthur—"

"Guinevere." Arthur left the rest unsaid. The sharp edge in his voice kept her quiet until they reached one of the unused guest rooms. Arthur led her inside, searched the room thoroughly, then locked the door behind them. After seeing her seated at the table, he strode over to the window. All the motion had disguised it at first, but Arthur was finding it difficult to talk.

"Arthur," Gwen said after a short silence, "Elyan said that Merlin is gone and not returning. Ever. What happened?" A long, bitter silence. "Arthur," Gwen said, close to tears now, "what can he possibly have done?"

Arthur felt the words crowding in his mouth, begging to be set free, but he would not voice them. He could not.

Gwen stood. "If he's upset you this badly, then it must be…but, _no,_ Merlin would never betray your trust." Arthur grimaced, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the stone walls outside. "I refuse to believe it! How could he betray you when he loves you more dearly than life itself?" She crossed to him. "Arthur, you know this is true. How can you even—"

"He confessed…to sorcery."

Gwen was so shocked that she took a step back from Arthur, her mind whirling. "No, he wouldn't do that."

"But he did. He used magic over and over again, even told me how and when. And I can remember…now I remember, it seemed like things always went better for me if he was there. I never knew why." He glanced over to see Gwen blinking away tears.

"Then he…he did heal my father that time? And the Witchfinder was right. And Morgana? Did he have anything to do with her? No, they weren't…they weren't working together, were they?" She stepped closer to Arthur.

The idea chilled him. He reached out and took Gwen in his arms.

"No. He was, apparently, working against her. If we take his word for it. He showed me scars from battles he's fought that I knew nothing about. Told me the old Dragonlord we met and lost was his father. Explained how he let loose the dragon on Camelot and then commanded it to leave. He was the one who killed Agravaine. And, somehow, Nimueh. Can you believe all of that?"

"Oh, Arthur. He must have been so frightened," Gwen said, her voice thick with tears.

"What?" Arthur pulled away a bit to look down at her.

She looked up only briefly. "He couldn't tell any of us, obviously. All those things he did—he did them alone. That must have been so hard."

Arthur felt his mind slowly open to the idea. Over the years, there had been times that Merlin had been closed off and Arthur had been sure that he was hurting and hiding it. Lying.

Arthur suddenly felt like lashing out again. Instead, he schooled himself and held Gwen a few moments more.

"I have to question Gaius," he began, but stopped when Gwen looked up at him, horrified. "Not to arrest him, Gwen. I just need to understand, and I'm hoping Gaius has some of the answers. If anyone knows why Merlin kept this secret and what in the past four years he's been responsible for, it's Gaius."

Gwen looked Arthur full in the face, reading his eyes carefully. "Arthur, you know why Merlin kept it a secret. If it were known he used magic, then he would have been condemned to die. You are kinder than Uther in so many ways, but the law still stands. As a s-sorcerer, his life was in danger every second of every day." She wiped away tears. "Be merciful to him, Arthur. Merlin coming here is part of what turned you into the king you are today. Don't throw that all away."

"I've already banished him. It's done."

"I thought you might have. I understand why." She hugged him tighter, trembling. "Out of all the things you could have done, that was the kindest. Banishment can always be overturned and at least…at least he is free."

"I'm afraid that is thanks to Gwaine. Had it been up to me…." Arthur shook his head. He wanted to share her optimism, but then she hadn't seen Merlin. She hadn't seen him with glowing, golden eyes or felt his terrifying power. Merlin hadn't been _Merlin_ then. "I will let you know what I learn from Gaius. For now, keep this as quiet as possible."

"That might be a challenge," she said quietly, stepping away, "since a third of the castle seems to have seen Gwaine helping Merlin out to the stables. Goodness knows that if I'd seen them, I would never have let them out of my sight. Why wasn't I out in the courtyard today of all days?"

"I'm glad you weren't, Guinevere. Even you would have had to let them go." Arthur kissed her on the forehead. "I will come to you later."

Gwen's smile was tremulous but genuine. He felt the edge of his anger blunted in its shine. She still loved him, despite what he'd done to her friend. Arthur felt gratitude for that fact, though it was soon pushed aside.

Gaius hadn't moved from the chair. He looked weary, bowed by recent events. Arthur paused before entering his chamber, schooling his anger. "Gaius, let's start over, shall we? Are you hungry? Would you like for me to send for some food? No? A drink, then?"

Gaius looked over at him, puzzled. "No, sire. Thank you."

"Very well." Arthur felt more settled after his talk with Gwen. He tried to let his questions distill down into something more manageable, something that he could actually voice. "If what Merlin said is true—and from what I saw in here today, I have no reason to doubt it—then he could have killed me at any time. He could have sided with the Druids and taken revenge on my father, or gone with Morgana and helped her bring down Camelot. The crown was literally his for the taking. But instead…he polished my armor, mucked out my stables, apparently saved my life many times over and got absolutely no thanks for it. And…he did this for years."

Gaius was smiling fondly. "Yes, he did. But it was not without some frustration and an occasional sense of helplessness."

"Yes, I do know that," Arthur admitted. "But when I think of what he put up with from me…and all the while…"

"All the while you were poking a dragon, unawares."

Arthur's questioning eyes met Gaius's knowing ones. "Yes. If he had lost his temper, just once, I could have been…disintegrated, apparently. Or struck by lightning. Set on fire." Arthur started pacing. "And instead, he took every insult, every blow, every danger thrown at him and…stayed? I ask you, what kind of an all-powerful, godlike being does that?"

"Godlike? Oh, I don't think I would go that far."

Arthur paused. "Have you ever seen him actually do magic?"

"Only small things, sire."

"Then you will have to take my word for it." Arthur wasn't going to repeat the words "all-powerful" or "godlike," but he had meant them.

Gaius seemed to accept this. "I have often wanted to ask him to do something large, but he was always so reluctant."

"For good reason," Arthur said, pacing again. "I don't think he was entirely in control. Gwaine's presence seemed to truncate things just as they were getting out of hand."

"You asked why he stayed, why he helped you. Did Merlin speak to you of his destiny?"

"He did, briefly."

"Then, that is why. At first, it was merely because it was necessary. In the early days, you nearly ran him off a few times, destiny or no, with your arrogance. I mean no offense, sire." Arthur inclined his head, smiling wryly, and Gaius continued. "But over time, I began to hear something quite different from Merlin. He had glimpsed something in you—several times—the image of the king you might one day be. He began to believe in his destiny, and in yours. For the sake of that destiny, he fought, and sacrificed and did things many would not dare to do."

Arthur looked over at Gaius, then shook his head. "But…magic? Did he have to use magic?"

"Of course he did. How else would Nimueh be defeated? Magic will be used by those against Camelot, by those who Uther injured with his reign of terror. For you to survive, to become the king of Camelot, it was necessary for someone to fight those battles you could not fight. Merlin was given to you for your protection, and he has done well."

Arthur pressed his fingers against the tight ache in his forehead. "God help me, but you are making a kind of sense, Gaius. You, and that idiot Gwaine."

"Sire, I know how shocking it must have been to see the true extent of Merlin's power. And it is likely true that very few men, if any, would cloak that might in weakness as he has done. But Merlin is just…Merlin. His humility is a gift, not a trick. As important as he believes his destiny to be, he remains one of the kindest and most selfless men I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Please, do not be frightened of his power."

"I am not frightened of Merlin," the king snapped back before trailing off, "I am merely…"

Gaius watched the king turn back to gaze out of the window. "Do you have any idea how difficult it must have been for him to trust you with his secret, how frightened he must have been?"

"I think I do," Arthur said after a pause.

"I think you don't," Gaius said plainly. "In the beginning, he wanted to tell you, but I counseled him against it. Arthur, you are Uther's son, and, at first, you _could_ not understand; your upbringing prevented it. For Merlin, hiding his magic here in Camelot was survival. The times he slipped up and made a mistake, the consequences were dire. The Witchfinder nearly had me executed, and with Uther's blessing, all because Merlin paused to conjure the image of a horse in a smoke cloud, just to make himself briefly happy." Gaius leaned forward in the chair. "Over and over, he has sacrificed small things like happiness and larger things that he still won't even speak of, all to help you, to protect you and Camelot. And all the while, he knew that in the end, you might have him killed for it. Or banished."

Arthur pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I begin to see a solution to this dilemma. You must share with me all that you know of Merlin's actions, his motives and his choices, being careful to tell the truth. I have many questions that must be answered."

"I am at your disposal, sire."

"Then, shall we say, after dinner every evening, here in my quarters?"

"Whatever you desire."

"That is what I desire. Every evening until my questions are exhausted, if that point is ever reached."

"I wonder if that is a reasonable goal, sire."

"I wonder, as well." Arthur's jaw tightened. "But my trust, once broken, is a harsh taskmaster. I fear you must pay part of the price for your deception."

"Yes, sire. Willingly."

"For now, please return to your quarters and to your normal duties. Say nothing of Merlin's actions or his banishment to anyone. Tell everyone that he went home to Ealdor because of..."

"An illness?"

"Yes. That. Then we meet tomorrow night. I will ask questions; you will answer. And we'll see if we can't reach an endgame of some kind."

"I look forward to it," Gaius said as he stood. As the old man slowly walked to the door, Arthur frowned.

"Do you mean that?"

Gaius turned. "Yes, sire. I am proud of the way Merlin has served and aided you since his arrival here, with no thought of reward for himself. I assure you that you will be most surprised when you hear the way his magic has helped to protect you and has kept Camelot safe. It is quite an amazing story."

* * *

The after-dinner questionings had become another part of Arthur's schedule. It was something at times to look forward to, and at other times something to dread. The simple truth was that Arthur was not always comfortable with the things Gaius revealed about Merlin.

Freya. Arthur was devastated to find out that he been responsible for killing Merlin's first and only love. Gaius's description of Merlin's giddiness over the girl, his initial refusal to see her as the deadly creature of the night, and his eventual heartbreak at her passing were painful to hear. The hardest part to get past, still, was the fact that Merlin never said a word to Arthur about any of it, before or after. Gaius insisted that Merlin never held Arthur responsible, but how could that be?

The Fisher King. It turned out that Merlin had been on the quest because he was the only one who could help the King die as he wished. For that, he used Morgana's cuff, her gift to Arthur, which was no gift at all since it had apparently compromised Arthur's health and safety to such an extent that he would have died without intervention. Merlin, again, had said nothing about this, or about the precious vial he was given from the Fisher King in return.

The Cup of Life. So…Lancelot and Merlin had been after the _Cup_ and not the warning bell. It was a relief to finally find out how the undead army had been vanquished. But how humbling, and again, how frustrating that Merlin did it all and then hid behind a façade of ineptitude. Arthur could clearly remember teasing Merlin about his failure to secure the bell even with Lancelot's help. How it must have goaded him, and yet he bore it with good will.

Gaius's stories had been invaluable, instructive and heartbreaking. But none more so than that of the sword in the stone. Arthur had been led, by Merlin, to a rock with a sword stuck fast in it, and had been convinced, by Merlin, that if he only had enough faith, he could become the king of legend and do the impossible—pull the sword out.

But now he knew; it hadn't been impossible, not with Merlin. Merlin _was_ magic, and the feat of pulling a sword out of a stone was likely something he could do for any person he wanted to, at any time. Not a miracle—magic. Which meant that, in the end, for better or worse, Arthur was really only what Merlin had made of him.

That hurt. Arthur clenched a fist. Damn his pride––he had to get past that!

Yes, Merlin had lied to him often, had proven that he could not be trusted when he thought the good of Camelot or its king was at stake. But there was no evil design to take over Camelot, no hidden agenda. Merlin's appearance as a loyal subject had not been a lie; Arthur could set that aside. Still, that didn't mean that he could ignore the crux of the matter.

If someone lies for the good of his kingdom or for the good of someone else, does that make the lie itself good? Or does it make the liar untrustworthy and the betrayal that much more painful? And…does the answer change when the person does it over and over and over again?

Arthur sighed heavily and sat up in bed, wishing he could answer this question once and for all. Banishing Merlin hadn't been the solution. The warlock was still out there, a great force for good or evil, one that could sweep in and tip the scales at just the right moment. He was powerful and extremely dangerous.

Arthur swept away the covers, careful not to disturb Guinevere, and put his feet on the cold stone floor. He walked over to the window, brooding. Below him, the courtyard was lonely, shadowed, and still. It fit his mood exactly. A decision lay before Arthur, one that he knew in his gut carried more than just the weight of one man's life.

If he believed Merlin to be in the right, then he owed him a massive apology, a reinstatement and a proclamation to end Uther's edict against magic for all time. There was no middle road, not in the light of Merlin's obvious loyalty and willing suffering. But with a heavy heart, Arthur acknowledged the other side of that coin. If Arthur believed Merlin to be misguided in his actions and a danger to Camelot, then there was but one course of action: he must be hunted down…and destroyed.

* * *

A/N: Yes, yes, I know. But really, we must give my Arthur a bit of time to deal with this. I tried very hard to get the man to cooperate more quickly, as I never like reading through these rehashes, but Arthur just...wouldn't. He's so dramatic that way. Has to take his time and *think.* So extra thanks to Eilonwyn for helping me at least polish this up.

Now...next chapter...on with the action! :D


	3. Chapter 2

_Maybe this wasn't the best idea,_ Gwaine thought as he watched Merlin from across the room. The boy was huddled over his tankard of ale, shooting guilty looks at the sweet young thing trying to chat him up. The girl was slim, blonde, and exactly Gwaine's type—but, of course, she had taken one look at those eyes of Merlin's and been enchanted. _Great, right?_

This was exactly why Gwaine had wanted to get them out of the woods and back to civilization: to force Merlin to interact with people again and stop brooding. Taking the boy out of his home and away from Gaius and Arthur had been…not good.

Merlin just couldn't seem to get away from the past. Quite often, as they were sitting beside a campfire, he would grow quiet and Gwaine could tell that uncomfortable thoughts were occupying his friend's mind. No matter what distraction technique Gwaine tried, the warlock would end up at the same place. "Why did I tell Arthur?" he would groan, pressing his hands to his forehead. "I should have just left everything alone."

When the question had first come up, Gwaine's answers had all centered around the same theme: Arthur was a royal, backstabbing git and Merlin should have been able to tell him the truth. When the question just wouldn't die, the ex-knight had gotten creative, trying to entertain himself, at least, if not Merlin. "Why did you tell him? Because you don't drink enough ale." Eventually, he learned that Merlin didn't expect an answer. He already knew the answer, but his agony forced the voicing of the question again and again. So Gwaine had fallen silent and simply put an arm around Merlin, trying to let his presence do what his words could not.

Of course, there wasn't a simple solution to be found for being accused of betraying your best friend, killing his father, and seeking the downfall of his kingdom. _Nope._ Which was why they now found themselves in a tavern. What else could Gwaine do when even his presence wasn't enough, when Merlin turned inward and was barely responsive at all? Strange taverns made the boy extremely uncomfortable, and that was good medicine for both of them.

And if this little blonde had her way, maybe Merlin would learn to loosen up a little. Gwaine winced as the girl leaned over and put a hand on the boy's arm, leaning in close to whisper in his ear. Someone walked in front of Gwaine and he lost sight of them for a moment. _Did she just…?_

"Ooooh, I think Lianne likes your friend," said the chesty brunette nestled into Gwaine's side.

But Merlin was already on his feet, gently pushing the girl away and babbling apologies as he moved away from the table. _Without_ his drink. Gwaine growled as Merlin, looking confused, threaded his way through the crowd toward him. The boy had no idea how to relax.

"Idon'tlikethisplaceI'mleaving," Merlin said, pausing to blink at the woman tracing Gwaine's ear with her finger. Something flickered in his eyes for a second, an interest that Gwaine saw from time to time and tried to encourage.

"Merlin, at least finish your drink. Your girl might look a whole lot more attractive at the end of it." Gwaine indicated Lianne with a jerk of his head, for which he got a small slap from the girl at his side.

"You are so rude," the brunette said playfully. Gwaine frowned, suddenly realizing he'd forgotten her name. Had he even asked for it, or had he been too busy watching Merlin? "Lianne is beautiful. Don't you think so," she said to Merlin.

"What? Yes. Yes, of course, she's lovely…it's just…"

Gwaine could only watch him blush and stammer for so long. "Where will you be? Stable? Room?"

"I'll check on the horses first," Merlin said, relieved. He looked at the girl beside Gwaine, then back at Gwaine before walking off awkwardly.

"He's strange, but he is kinda' cute."

Something about her tone depressed Gwaine. This life, where nobody cared for him or even came close to understanding his worth and tremendous power, wasn't the life for him. As friendly as Merlin was, here and anywhere new they went, he just didn't fit in. Gwaine muttered a sharp curse. Why couldn't Merlin be more like him—finding his pleasure where he could and forgetting the past?

"Such language from a gentleman," cooed the girl beside him. _Tasha?_

"Oh, I'm no gentleman," Gwaine said with a self-deprecating smile. But the kiss he got told him that this girl couldn't tell one of his smiles from another, and probably didn't care. She had no idea what Gwaine was trying to forget tonight, no idea of the burden he was laying down for just a few minutes. _Of course, Merlin's not a burden—not in any way_. But then again, caring for someone so important—someone filled with so much brightness and heart and Destiny—was wearing in the most excruciating way.

_Normal._ He just wanted normal for a while. He pulled away from the brunette and gestured to the door. She hopped up and sashayed through the crowded tables, giving him a look that made his stomach clench in anticipation. Forgetting was an art, and thank the heavens above, it was one at which Gwaine excelled.

* * *

Merlin patted the rump of his black mare and slid into the stall beside her, smiling gently. "And how are you this evening, Zoë? What's that? You want to know why I'm out here? Well. There was this pretty girl in the tavern and—" Zoë shook her head and snorted. "What? It wasn't my fault, now. You know you're the only girl for me." Merlin smoothed her neck, smiling into her soft brown eyes. Zoë whickered at him. "Where would I be without you?"

Merlin patted Zoë again, then slid by her and closed the gate, already losing interest. His horse had been well brushed down and seemed perfectly happy to be housed so nicely for the night. It was a rare treat for her, or for her master. Merlin rubbed at his forehead. He had the oddest headache. What he should do was return to their paid-for room, with its nice pallet and washing bowl, but it was too close to the loud tavern to allow sleep right now.

Merlin had a love-hate relationship with towns.

He was drawn to the peace and quiet of the woods, but here in the north, it was too often cold, wet, and miserable. The forests were few and far between, and the wind swept over the flat, rocky land in between with breath-stealing speed. In towns, yes, there were windbreaks and rooms and places to get supplies and warmth and mead. But, inevitably, there were conversations and inquiries to avoid.

Though Gwaine was a master at blending in anywhere he went, Merlin found himself distinctly lacking in that ability. There was something about him that drew questions, even from well-meaning folk. And from those who didn't mean him well, Merlin often found himself the object of pointed, unwanted attention. It had been so much easier in Camelot, when the king's name had protected him.

But no more. Merlin sighed. That was why he found himself at the tavern's stable—he was dodging people, as usual, especially the pretty girl that had wanted to get so close. There had been something bewitching in her eyes, something impossible to ignore and hard to leave. At least, it had been until she'd touched him. He would bet everything he owned that she wasn't used to getting responses like the one he'd given—yelping and jerking away like her hand was aflame.

_Idiot,_ he muttered under his breath. How could he expect anyone else to understand? There was no way he could get close to a girl that way, not with his secret, and especially not after Freya. Just considering it made him feel nauseous—or maybe that was from being inside an over-warm stable that needed a good mucking out. His nose was quite experienced in these matters, thanks to Arthur.

Merlin walked through the center aisle of the stable, taking a moment to offer his hand to a dappled mare that was sniffing in his direction. He smiled up at her as she nosed his hand and then bumped her nose into his cheek, a warm welcome for a stranger. "It's nice to meet you, too. I wish I had an apple or a carrot to share." Moving to the side, he reached around and smoothed the speckled brown-and-white neck. "Sorry, girl. Like I just told her back there, I'm already taken."

It was as he turned away that the world suddenly tilted under him. Merlin staggered and tripped over a bucket of water that had been hiding in the shadows. He managed to catch himself roughly on the door of the next stall, hitting it with such a bang that the horse inside neighed and kicked out in surprise. The furious power of the kick broke the latch and the door flew open, propelling Merlin back in the direction of the bucket, where his legs tangled up again and he fell backwards, landing hard on the floor. He lay there a moment, stunned.

Tripping over the same thing twice in almost as many seconds had to be a record, even for him. He groaned, sitting up slowly. It was customary for him at this point to imagine Arthur's annoyed and annoying commentary at his clumsiness, but he tried instead to remember when exactly the dizziness had hit…?

"You all right?"

Merlin turned in the direction of the voice, wincing. A young boy stood there, pitchfork in hand. He wasn't wielding it, though, just holding it as though he'd been pitching hay when he'd heard someone hitting the floor with his head. There was something odd about the boy, about his eyes. It reminded Merlin of the girl in the tavern, the one who had served him ale and stayed too long. Were they related?

"I'm fine."

"You need a healer?"

"No. But the horse needs to be penned in again."

"He's already back in. That stallion has a nasty temper, but I got him in fine. Uhm…sorry about the bucket. I'll move it now." The boy nervously grabbed the half-spilled bucket of water and hauled it away. Merlin sighed. His trousers were wet and he didn't feel like moving. His nausea had tripled, and the blow to his head was making it ache sharply. But he forced himself up and out through the doors.

Night had come, bringing moister air and a swarm of gnats. Merlin found himself swatting at the stupid things, tripping over rocks and potholes in the yard as he headed for their room. He looked like Gwaine after a night in the tavern. Had he hit his head _that_ hard?

As if in answer, the world tilted around him again. He managed to avoid the back ends of two horses tethered to the post out front, but ran one knee painfully into the water trough. Something was definitely wrong. He needed to get to the tavern and find Gwaine—

_Merlin._

A whisper caught his ear. Whipping around to find the voice was not a smart idea. Merlin's vision slanted and he pitched headlong into a shallow mud puddle. Pushing himself up, gasping, muddy water dripping from his chin, he found her dim figure in the shadows. The fierce, cold ache of her magic reached him all too soon.

"Morgana?"

She didn't say anything at first, and Merlin thought he was mistaken. Then she seemed to jump forward in time, was suddenly close, and he was up on his knees, hand raised in an instant. But…_nothing happened_. His magic was sluggish, unable to respond before her spell raised him out of the puddle and flung him to the ground fifteen feet away.

Merlin landed on his side, writhing in pain, unable to get his head clear enough to see straight, panicking when his magic stayed languid and liquid, locked somewhere inside. What was wrong with him?

Morgana bent over him, touching his hair gently. "Merlin, Merlin. So stupid." Then she tangled her fingers in his hair and tugged his head back, exposing his neck. "Everyone knows that Gwaine will eventually turn up in a tavern somewhere and then you're only one drugged drink away from being at my mercy…_Emrys._

"Oh yes, I know that's who you are. Mordred told me and I discovered that I only _thought_ I hated you before. Now, I really, _really_ do." She slapped his face lightly on the last two words before standing and waving a hand over his body, which seized up in one almighty cramp. Merlin started to panic. His magic was useless, his body immobilized. His wild eyes found her, though he couldn't even turn his head.

"So there we were, Mordred and I, plotting and planning to take down Camelot and its resident warlock, when a report came in. Can you imagine what it said?" She drew a small bottle out of a hidden pocket. "That my idiot brother had banished you—his most trusted companion—for being a sorcerer." She crouched by his side. "It's so sad that he turned on you in the end. How that must have hurt. I imagine it was _almost_ as bad as being poisoned by someone you trust. But it certainly made my day. It proved once and for all that I was right to turn on him first. Now. Take your medicine like a good boy."

She took the stopper out of the small, black bottle and tipped it over Merlin's mouth. With his muscles seized up, he couldn't jerk away, nor could he close his mouth completely. The dark, slimy potion dripped in, threatening to choke him. Morgana hissed a spell and his throat muscles relaxed, working to swallow despite his best efforts. The cold of the draught spread immediately into his stomach and, as it flowed outward, soothed away the cramp.

Merlin's body went limp. He bit back a groan, trying desperately one last time to gather his magic, but it slipped away from him like a rushing tide. Morgana was still watching him carefully. "So I guess this means I've won. The next time Arthur sees you, he's going to kill you." She laughed. "He's going to have no choice but to put you out of your totally mindless misery."

"Morgana, please, no," he gasped. But it was too late. Her hands were on his head and a fierce, sharp pain speared through him and thrust all thought aside. He fought for breath and clutched at her hands, trying to force them away. She was chanting. What was she doing…?

Everything around him faded, the colors smudging and then running like chalk in the rain. Morgana had moved her hands to his face. Intense cold radiated from her palms, burned his skin and sank into his bones. He opened his mouth to protest again but only gasped wordlessly. Behind her, the sky and trees were reduced to watery smudges of light and dark, charcoal smears that meant nothing to him.

She had drawn him to his feet, and her hands were all that kept him upright as the world around him tilted once, twice, and again and again, whirling until the smudges formed a circle, a tunnel stretching in front of him. Morgana forced his head sideways, toward the unnerving sight of light being swallowed up in that curling, cloying darkness. She was chanting, screaming forceful words that his muddled head couldn't understand. Only her hands kept him in place, nails digging into his skin, sending rivulets of something hot down his cheeks. His mind was blank. The pounding in his ears drowned out everything but his own terror.

Slowly, he realized that he was sinking, down…down…beneath Morgana. The ground was soft as he collapsed against it, _into_ it, his body folded beneath him. Her fingers held his face up, but it didn't hurt anymore. Nothing hurt. He was wrapped in thick cotton, numb as she pushed him down farther, frozen as she pressed him deep into the earth. He was in a dark pit, unable to move, boneless and formless, a hump of damp earth and soft clay.

Then she released him and he was trembling, though he wasn't sure how he felt it, being nothing. Somehow his teeth were chattering. He still had teeth? As he lay there, pondering, a bright light shone on him from somewhere ahead. The tunnel had changed. A stunning glow pierced through the swirling dark and Merlin's head cleared. The light was calling to him. He had to get closer. _But how?_ It was impossible… and just as impossible to look away.

As time passed, he became aware that Morgana had left him; he couldn't feel her anywhere near. So he could stay here and freeze in the ground, or move and thaw in the warm light. The choice was obvious. He would do the impossible.

He rose somehow, coordinating floppy limbs that threatened constantly to give in and slide back to the earth. _Why am I so heavy?_ All around him, there were whispers. It was her; it was Morgana coming back. Merlin slouched forward, away from the dark pit she had pushed him into, toward the expanding light, the warmth of day and the relief of being away from her. Soon, he was inside the tunnel, reaching for the light.

But as he moved, something caught and held him, like a grasping hand. It pulled him down, back to the soft earth. A vision of Ealdor, of his mother, sprang into his mind. With a ragged cry, one that he barely heard, Merlin ripped himself away and felt his body lighten. Something else caught at his feet, and he struck out roughly until it released him, a picture of Gwen fading before him now. After that, it was something catching hold of his hand and Gwaine's face, then Lancelot, Gaius and Freya…every step was a fight, and every victorious movement left a little of the drowning weight behind. Closer to the light now, he was thawing out and almost free. One more step, one more fight and he would _be_ free. Looking back, he saw only inky blackness. No …whatever-her-name-was. Where had she gone?

He shook his head and staggered from dizziness. Why was he so unbalanced? Someone had done something…

Another spike of fear had him pushing forward again, before he could remember. But now, in his mind's eye, Arthur's face was clear before him, shouting, laughing, serious, demanding, as always. This time the grip of the tunnel seemed to hold all of him at once. He couldn't get through. But he must, the light was ahead and the pit behind. Was Arthur ahead, too?

Merlin pushed with all his might, kicked and fought with all his strength until finally, all that was holding him fell aside. He tumbled out, boneless, breathless and lighter than air. He was here; he was free. His mind was clear. He took a few deep breaths, feeling the blessed warmth on his skin. Then he frowned.

* * *

By the time Gwaine had heard the commotion and forced his hazy brain to connect it with Merlin, it was too late. He sped into the street, loose shirt flying and sword raised, and was stunned to see Morgana standing in front of Merlin, her hands digging into his face. Merlin looked gray and half dead, blood trickling down his cheeks where her nails had gouged his skin.

She was chanting at him, and his long, lanky body was collapsing like a pile of sticks. In horror, Gwaine watched him fold and the dirt melt around his body until it welcomed him under the soil. She was burying him. Horrified, Gwaine stood frozen until all that was left aboveground was Merlin's pale, bloodied face and the long, helpless tips of his fingers.

Gwaine shook himself, finally remembering his sword. He was Strength, for God's sake! Morgana had turned to the odd apparition hanging off the ground, chanting more words and tracing graceful fingers through the air. Gwaine held back his battle cry in favor of stealth. He had taken five steps nearer when a magical force threw him back, flipping him end over end to land on the top of the stables with the breath knocked out of him. His sword went skittering over the edge. It took nearly a minute of gasping effort before he could breathe again, and even more time before he could force himself to crawl back to the edge.

The sight before him took his breath away again. Merlin was fighting through a horrific tunnel of …what Gwaine could only think of as…demons. They grasped at him, pulling and tugging at…not his clothes…not his body, even, but at something _inside_ him. The hands seized and pulled until impossible, long strands of glowing light appeared. Then Merlin would flail and fight, with the result that the fiber snapped, leaving the hideous hands full of light. And, oblivious, Merlin surged forward desperately, becoming more indistinct and faded with step.

"Merlin! No!" Gwaine yelled. Morgana turned to give him a smirk. Gwaine cursed at her until she finally lost the smirk. She crooked one finger and whispered something, and he suddenly found himself flying. _When did she get this powerful?_ He landed painfully at her feet, once again fighting for breath.

Morgana knelt beside him, enjoying his discomfort. "You are so much fun to play with."

He wanted to return the compliment, but couldn't. So he spat in her face.

"And at the same time, so stupid. Thank you for bringing Merlin to me. This fits into my plans perfectly." She stood and ground one high-heeled boot into his palm. Gwaine wouldn't give her the satisfaction of crying out, but he was sure she'd broken something. "Something to remember me by, just in case losing your friend to madness isn't enough." She moved away, laughing.

_Madness?_ Gwaine forced himself to breathe and sit up, trying to see Merlin in the tunnel ahead. He was at the end now, fighting fiercely, a blurry image of his once bright self. "No, Merlin," Gwaine whispered, pulling himself to his feet and staggering forward. "Stop!" he yelled hoarsely. "She _wants_ you to go through."

But he was too late, again. Merlin broke free with a fierce cry and landed on the ground on the other side, looking broken and lost. The tunnel dissolved in a huff of wind, fragments of Merlin's light mixing with the darkness until they annihilated each other.

"Merlin, mate," Gwaine called, halting as he got a good look at his friend. Merlin's face was ghostly gray and his eyes were shadowed, no light reflecting off them at all. He was pawing at his neckerchief, twitching in an odd way that seemed almost inhuman.

Gwaine started forward, surprised to find that his right knee didn't want to function. He limped his way forward, disturbed by the way Merlin was now tugging off his jacket, throwing it to the ground after his neckerchief. And his shirt…?

Merlin never went without clothing. It was something the knight had noticed but never commented on. This was not a good sign. Even worse, Merlin cried out and backed away from Gwaine as he approached. "It's okay, mate," Gwaine said in a low voice, "it's me."

Merlin grasped at his ears, crying out and moving away.

"Merlin?" he whispered more quietly.

Another cry and this time, Merlin ran. A villager tried to intercept him, and the fleeing boy switched directions. Gwaine gave himself time only to go and find his sword before giving chase. Merlin would be hard to see in the woods, his skin so gray that he'd be lost easily in the shadows, but there was nothing else to be done.

How long he ran Merlin didn't know, nor did he know how far. Things like that no longer made sense to him. Eventually, his fear of people and their bright, horrifying thoughts and noise led him to a dark, dank cave that gave him the silence he craved. There, he had space and safety to grow calm again, or at least as calm as he could be. A constant keening in his mind kept him moving, mumbling, trying to escape whatever it was.

There was something wrong with him. As he lay there in the dark, twitching and occasionally joining his voice to the keening in his head, he knew deep inside that something had gone terribly wrong. Tears stung his cheeks. Someone, somewhere was counting on him. And he had failed.

* * *

A/N: Huge thanks to Eilonwyn, who truly must be one of the best betas out there, bar none. *Hugs* to all my readers and reviewers. You guys really make my day! For those of you who are really, really mad at Arthur right now, just hold tight. Big things happening next...


	4. Chapter 3

It was a long time before he ventured out of the cave at all. Daylight hurt his eyes and made his flesh creep. He liked the night, when the dark canopy of trees overhead felt almost as safe as the roof of his cave. Then he would sit at the edge of the entrance, listening entranced to the trickling, soothing sound of the stream nearby. It called to him, and, for those blessed moments, eased the horrible keening sound that never left his mind. Slowly, he would slink forward, kneel by the water, and drink his fill. He was always thirsty…

…and he was always reluctant to leave. The shadows played with the moonlight on the water, splashing and running down the silvery path. They mesmerized him.

He was still watching them when she came.

Her thoughts hit him all at once, the white-hot hate sending him sprawling backward. Mute with fear, he scrambled to his feet and threw himself back in the safety of his cave. To his horror, she followed. She was calling to him, laughing, her words and thoughts tearing his mind into shreds. Over rocks, through little hollows with shallow pools he crept, frantic, never far enough away. In the end, he found himself against the back wall of the cave, pressing into the rock, gasping and whimpering as her smothering presence drew closer.

The light she had conjured went away, and lovely darkness crept in. But _she_ ruined it—he knew she was still there. The sound of his breathing, harsh and desperate, filled the cave, joined with the crunch of rock as his feet shifted nervously over and over again.

Then two rings of gold flashed in front of his eyes. In the damp dark, hands reached for him and her thoughts skewered his mind easily and her cold hands pressed him against the wall, hard—harder, and all the while she was whispering...

The rock behind him was softening, moving, welcoming him, just like the pit.

_No!_ Merlin wanted to scream, sudden clarity taking his breath. _Merlin! That's my name! Yes!_ It was Morgana pressing him into the rock. And he wouldn't—

The rings of gold brightened, showing a hateful face inches away, and the whispering grew until it seemed more like a scream, and the keening, confusion and pain drowned his thoughts. Then the darkness was his home, and the rock was welcoming him, growing a perfectly shaped space just for him. His head fell back limply, cradled by soft rock. He was so….tired. Why had he been fighting so hard? Hiding? _The rings of light aren't so bad._ He could still see them, disembodied, floating, fading. Somehow, the rock surrounding him was letting him breathe, like a suit of armor made of stone, except he was pretty sure that he couldn't move very much.

At first, that was okay.

And then the golden circles of light died. Darkness closed in, the rock grew hard…and he couldn't move. The terror began as a small, icy seed, but it blossomed fast and expanded until nothing else fit inside him but panic. He was straining every muscle, pushing, pulling, screaming, gasping, fighting to get out—to _move_—to take in air— _please!_Terminally short of breath, muscles burning, helpless against the rock, he felt his senses die…one by one.

* * *

Arthur, his head occupied with thoughts of leading his council toward a more lenient stance on tax evasion, stopped in midsentence when his guards interrupted, dragging a disheveled, dirty figure inside. The council members began whispering among themselves. Arthur raised a hand to censure his guards, but froze mid-gesture as the man on his knees raised his head to cast a feral look at the king. It was Gwaine.

Arthur strode from the table, stopping abruptly as he realized that he could not very well begin yelling the questions he desperately wanted to ask before the council. Where was Merlin? Everything about Gwaine's posture screamed that something was wrong. Why else would he be here?

The guard was speaking, something about Gwaine shouting at the guard outside the gates. Apparently, he had been rather insulting.

"No doubt," Arthur said drily. He could feel the stares of the council, their questioning glances, but none of them knew their king had threatened Merlin and Gwaine with death upon their return. For them, the story of the servant returning to Ealdor because of illness and the knight accompanying him was the last they had heard, though surely they were coming to the same conclusion as Arthur: Merlin was dead, or injured and dying.

"Guys," Gwaine said in a low tone. "You can let go now."

The guards waited for Arthur's nod before releasing Gwaine's arms. The knight immediately stood, tossed his hair out of his eyes and gave Arthur an even look. "Arthur."

Arthur blinked. The guards rushed back over and struck Gwaine in the knees so that he knelt again. A dagger appeared at his throat. "You will be respectful to your king."

"He's not my king, not even in name," Gwaine ground out between clenched teeth. "Not until he earns it again. Now let me go."

Two months ago, Arthur would have thrown him into the dungeons without a twinge of guilt, but not now. Now he understood the dark anger bordering on hatred that he saw in Gwaine's eyes. Only he and Gwaine knew why his stomach curdled with shame when he remembered that day and how he had treated his servant, his protector, his friend. In light of Merlin's efforts to protect and guide Arthur, however misguided and dangerous they might have been, Arthur's treatment of him had been appalling. Gwaine, a trusted knight simply being loyal to his friend, should never have gotten caught in the crossfire, much less banished for exhibiting noble behavior. Because of this, Arthur felt that he not only could excuse Gwaine's disrespect toward him, but deserved it from this man. He gestured to the guards, who, with some surprise, stepped back and removed themselves to stand by the door.

Gwaine once again stood and crossed his arms. "I'm here about Merlin."

Arthur's heart started beating hard and fast. "I thought as much. Please," he turned to the council members, "leave us. We will reconvene…I will let you know when we will reconvene." When they looked back as they scurried away with their parchments and sour looks, Arthur smiled as reassuringly as he could. "Thank you."

He dropped the smile as soon as the door closed and stepped closer to Gwaine. "What happened?"

"Morgana," Gwaine growled. "She got to him somehow, and managed to keep me back. I…I can't even describe what it was she did to him…"

A wild storm of emotion took hold of Arthur, but he fought it back. Taking another step, he felt his whole world narrow down to one question. "But he lives?"

"I think so," Gwaine said softly. "But she's messed up his head, made him see all people as his enemies, or that's what it looked like. He couldn't stand to be near anybody, not even me. He ran and…his trail went cold about a week ago."

"A week? Where?"

"Deep in the forest of Ascetir. I marked the spot—"

"Then we go—" Arthur was already sprinting for the door when he slowed his steps, holding a hand out to halt Gwaine. This was it, the point of no return. The two sides of himself that had argued for months, duty and love, had not yet come to a truce, and they battled in his head even now. He could do what his kingdom needed, or do what his heart told him.

Gwaine, seeming to sense his reason for hesitation, started right in, battering Arthur with angry words. Arthur had no focus left to give the man; his whole being was fixed on the divergent path before him. He had to choose, as always. But did he have to choose between his kingdom and himself?

Merlin would have counseled against pure duty, saying that what was good for the king was good for his kingdom. It was almost as if the man were standing beside him, thinking with him._Yes._Merlin had taught Arthur that even a king had a right to choose what made him happy, what made his heart whole. Arthur had chosen to forgive Gwen, to ask her for her hand on the basis of that counsel. He had given up trying to guess at how his late father would have handled matters, and had instead begun to explore his own kingly convictions, in many small areas. _But this…?_

Arthur's feet, as though predicting his outcome, began walking. His head lifted. And with a smile of blessed relief that brought tears to his eyes, he knew what he was going to do. _Yes, __**this.**_

Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, was going to save his best friend—his servant—duty and consequences be damned.

* * *

Nothing had changed when he next stirred. Darkness, dripping water somewhere, a smothering cocoon of rock—that was the extent of his world. Eventually he realized that his face was wet and that the air against his face was fresh, coming from somewhere beyond his tomb of darkness. How? It was so dark that the blackness felt pressed against his eyelids; he could not tell where the rock began and ended around him. Despite the fresh air, he could barely breathe.

The panic that had so recently burned itself out in him rekindled. Every movement scraped against rock, his sore muscles helplessly trembling in the small space. He fought against the fear, trying to calm himself, trying to find something to hold on to in the blankness of his mind. But…there was nothing for him to remember. His mind was a void—no memories, no name, no…anything.

Blurred faces were all that remained, and…

There was a fragment, just the barest breath of a place left in his memory. It was a lake, placid, still as glass. Another fragment was held a wood, so beautiful, so transcendent—could it have been real? There were ripples on the lake now, and a boat…and flames? The images were torn for some reason, disjointed. Someone was in the boat, but he could not see who. Why flames? There was no answer inside him.

The lake made him weep, but the vision steadied him. Somehow he knew that there, at that place, he had loved. He had loved, had _been_ loved, and had done something important, something worthy of remembering. If only he could...

It seemed like hours before he could hold the lake and the woods and the boat and the flames in his mind without them dissolving again, but finally, he managed it. Then, like a whisper, a name came to him. It resonated deep within him, like a dream or a destiny…

_Avalon._

At first, it was all he could see. He shifted minutely in his tomb, holding the panic at bay, searching his mind for something else, anything else to give him a name, a life, a reason for being in this hell. But beyond Avalon, the blackness in his mind very nearly matched the blackness around him. It was enough to drive him mad and keening again, but he held on to his one memory and waited.

Eventually, he gave up and let go again, drifting…not thinking at all, just waiting. And then—_yes_—another fragment of memory flickered by. A pile of armor on the ground beside him. A warm shaft of sunlight making the dancing dust motes in the air twinkle. His hand, cleaner that he could ever remember seeing it, holding a soft cloth and rubbing it in neat circles on the cool, smooth surface of a breastplate, calmly, sanely. He was humming something tuneless, glad to be sitting and taking a break from…something else. Whose was the armor? What had he been taking a break from? He hummed?

This memory wasn't charged with emotion, wasn't hard to piece together. It was a small moment, something tucked away without him even realizing. He had been happy that day. The feeling of warmth and contentment pushed back the black for a long time.

_Avalon…and armor._ Love and happiness. He could remember that. What else was there buried in his mind, beneath the terrible fog of nothingness?

He let his mind drift again, but it took a long, long time for another memory to surface. This time, it was in tiny pieces—a dark, dusty floor, hard against his back. Nearby, a fire. People were scattered around him, sleeping. There were whispers…and a terrible task lay before him. But he hadn't been alone. In fact, something about that moment had cemented that feeling strongly in his heart: _you are not alone._

Tears again filled his eyes. _You are not alone._ Painstakingly, he pulled the images together, weaving them into a whole. Had he been inside a castle? Yes…beside a warm fire, _not_ alone, waiting through a long night to do the impossible. He somehow got the feeling that he did that often.

Avalon, armor, and a warm fire. Love, happiness, and companionship. He smiled tremulously and wrapped the memories around himself like a warm blanket.

* * *

They arrived at the town of Dorst in a flurry of horses, shouts, and kingly commands. Arthur's nerves were stretched thin by this point, caught between a driving fever for haste and a fierce need for caution. So far, their luck had run both ways. They had managed to avoid any of King Lot's soldiers as they traveled through Essetir but they had yet to find even a single sign of Merlin's trail in the forest where Gwaine had last seen his tracks. Which was why they had pressed on to the place Gwaine had last seen Merlin in his right mind.

Arthur took one look at the building and strode toward Gwaine. "This, Gwaine, is a tavern. Are you telling me that you took him _here?_" The ex-knight only glowered in return. Arthur gritted his teeth and stepped in closer, biting his words off. "You know Merlin can't hold his drink. You were exposing him to every kind of—"

"What the hell—" Gwaine cursed furiously and yelled in return, "You _exposed_ him when you kicked him out of Camelot!"

Arthur glared, taking several deep breaths through flared nostrils before turning away. "You said there was a girl. Find her."

It didn't take long. Questions put to the tavern crowd by Arthur's knights quickly revealed that the girl had fallen ill and was abed at her mother's cottage. The knights and Arthur wasted no time in riding to the other side of the town, where a weary and overwhelmed lady opened the door and tremulously agreed to let the king of Camelot see her daughter, Lianne.

Arthur put on his most humble manners and knelt beside the girl's bedside as his knights lurked in the doorway. "Lianne, can you tell me about a young man you met a few days ago—tall and lanky, with black hair and striking blue eyes? He would have been dressed very humbly, with a red or blue neckerchief."

"Red," Gwaine corrected abruptly.

"Red," Arthur repeated, then turned his attention back to the girl. She was pretty enough—blonde and fine-browed—but there was a grayish, waxy cast to her skin. The young girl lay cast back awkwardly upon her pillow as though too weak to change positions. Her lips trembled, and her lilting voice was a whisper.

"Yes, yes. His eyes…but I barely remember. A fog was in my brain, it was. An' I did somethin'…I think. But I don't know…I don't know what." Tears rolled down her face, and Percival, behind Arthur, shifted. Arthur held a hand back to still the large man.

"Please. We must find him. Anything you can remember…anything at all."

She seized his gloved hand suddenly, and her wild brown eyes found his. "I didna know I had done it until I woke, you ha' to believe me."

"What did you do?"

She sniffed. "I mixed somethin'…herbs…I don't know why! I swear I'm no witch. Please…believe me."

Arthur bowed his head briefly. "I believe you. There was a witch here that night. She may have enchanted you."

The girl lay back, sighing so deeply that her body went limp. "Yes," she said, tears leaking out of her eyes. "I didna even remember until they showed me—the herbs an' the mortar an' pestle. I mixed somethin' an'…an' put it in his drink, the poor lad…an' he was the one she _took_, an'…an' I helped to do that to him."

Arthur gripped her hand tightly. "You are far less guilty than I. Put your mind at rest. We will help him, I swear." Her brown eyes slowly went blank and wandered again. Arthur stood and nodded at his men to leave the poor girl alone. The mother pushed her way through and knelt by her daughter's side.

Arthur hesitated before speaking again. "Thank you for your help. I hope she recovers soon." When the lady wept instead of speaking, Arthur took his leave. By way of a token of thanks and sympathy, he had Percival drop five gold coins from the royal purse on the table.

The bright sunlight shone in their faces as they strode back to the horses. "Well, at least now we know how she got to Merlin. He was drugged," Leon said in a dark voice.

"Sire?" Elyan said quietly, gesturing. Arthur stopped, looking back toward the house where Gwaine—as pale as skimmed milk—had dropped to his knees. Arthur took a deep breath and rubbed at the nasty ache between his eyes; then he strode back to the man and crouched beside him. Gwaine was already talking, seemingly to himself.

"…but it was through me. She got to him through me," Gwaine said, trailing off in a choked whisper.

"And me," Arthur said succinctly. "But I am resolved to do whatever it takes to make amends." Gwaine's eyes found his and they shared a look of guilt that slowly grew into resolve. "Are you with me?"

Gwaine gave a nod and picked himself up off the ground. He flicked his hair out of his face and stayed a pace behind Arthur on his way to the horses.

"What do we do now, sire?" Leon asked.

Arthur sucked in a deep breath and let it out steadily. "We wait."

Percival and Elyan exchanged glances. "And why do we wait, sire?" Elyan finally managed to ask.

"Because Morgana wants me. She knows I'm here. She'll come."

"But, sire," Leon spoke up after shaking his head, "she might take the opportunity to march against Camelot. If we wait for her here, we'll be playing right into her hands."

Arthur turned to stare at Leon. "Sir Leon, tread carefully. Are you saying that Merlin is not important enough to warrant our staying to engage Morgana?"

"No, sire! No. I…understand. We stay until we find Merlin, then."

"We do," Arthur agreed firmly. "Morgana has already taken Camelot once. I was the only thing she did _not_ take, to her detriment. This time, she will be after me. And Merlin, though I would give my right arm to have it otherwise, is the bait." Arthur saw each of his men nod in understanding after a moment's thought. "She will come soon, and she will tell me how to find him."

But despite his readiness, she did not come in the way that he expected.

* * *

A/N: According to Merlin wikia, which knows waaaay more than I do, the Forest of Ascetir is spelled differently than the land in which it is located: Essetir. I have no idea why there is this discrepancy, but let's just go with it, all right?

A/N: Huge thanks to Eilonwyn, who is a fantastic beta!


	5. Chapter 4

Arthur expected an attack, for the quiet night to be disrupted by flying bodies, bloodletting and mayhem—the usual from Morgana. The many hours of quiet waiting had simply sharpened his anticipation. She was coming—of that he had no doubt—and again, she had the upper hand. Arthur cursed quietly. His mind was greatly disturbed by Gwaine's description of what Morgana had done to Merlin.

The knight had said something about a churning, dark tunnel with grasping hands that had sucked and pulled at Merlin until he appeared to lose something vital of himself. Since then, the actions of his ex-servant, his former friend, fitted more closely with that of a madman than of anything Arthur could recognize. Despite himself, this tested the king's newly found trust sorely. Perhaps Merlin had survived this long without his magic driving him to evil, but now…could Morgana's spell have changed that?

A few grumbled words from Percival as he turned over in his sleep pulled Arthur out of his unhappy ruminations. The other knights were quiet in their bedrolls, and the forest around them was doubly so.

Arthur hit his head with a gloved fist. There was no benefit to thinking this way. Merlin deserved his trust—he always had—and it was Arthur's fault that the man had been in such a vulnerable position in the first place. He would pay for that however necessary, even by putting his own life on the line.

Arthur tossed another log on the fire, and then, suddenly, there was a whisper—

_Arthur. Come to me._

"Morgana?" Arthur hissed, jumping to his feet and pulling out his sword.

_Are you really going to attack my voice?_She sounded amused.

Arthur looked around wildly. "Where are you?"

_Outside Merlin's cave. Where else would I be? Do you have any idea how fun it is to listen to him scream?_

Arthur swallowed instant rage. "Where is he?" he asked in a low voice, mindful of the other men sleeping around him.

_In his cave. Didn't I make that clear already?_

"Take me to him, or I'll—"

_What will you do, brother? Do you still operate under the delusion that you—_

Arthur interrupted to finish his sentence slowly. "Or I'll hunt you down and kill you like a dog in the dirt."

_Oh my. You__**are**_ _angry. And over Merlin? You're the one who tossed your pet warlock out and left him to die. Don't blame me if I took an interest in him._

"Tell me where he is." She didn't answer. She was playing with him. "Tell me where _he is!"_Around him, the other knights jerked awake.

_Oh, all right—but only because it's no fun to have Merlin dying a slow, agonizing death if no one's there to see him. Want to come watch?_

_"Where is he?"_ Arthur shouted, ignoring the men who were now up and at attention, trying to locate the source of his agitation. "Morgana, show me!" The men drew their weapons, and Gwaine started shouting challenges. Arthur turned to him. "Shut up, Gwaine! She's not actually here."

_Follow the light, Arthur,__and you'll find him._

A small ball of light, red with small gold sparkles, zipped close to him. Arthur was unnerved. "Does anybody else see that?"

"Uh. Yes, sire," Elyan said in a low voice.

"Then follow it. Behind me, single file. Leave everything."

"Leave the—"

"Leave it all!"

The ball of light sped through the shadowy woods at a speed that tested Arthur's limits. For nearly five grueling hours, he forced himself to follow, stringing out the other knights behind him, focusing on the need ahead. He was positive Morgana was taunting him, pulling the light out of sight at times, zipping ahead and causing him to panic until it wandered into view again. But it also could be true that she was avoiding Lot's soldiers, who usually patrolled Essetir's forests. At times, he wished that he was still astride his horse, but then the glow would zip through thick underbrush and under low trees and he knew it would have been impossible. He ran on through the night, tripping and stumbling behind the demon light into the early hours of dawn.

With the advent of the sun, they traveled faster, the land around them growing rocky and slanting into a range of hills with caves tucked into many of them. But still Morgana's light drew them on. Another half an hour saw them come into a valley of deep forest shaded by hills on three sides. The light slowed, leading across a small stream, and there—finally—Arthur saw Merlin's bootprints in the nearly dry clay.

"Merlin?" He called, nearly breathless with exhaustion.

There was a cave yawning in the rock ahead.

"Do you see him?" Gwaine asked hoarsely, the next knight to splash through the stream. Arthur shook his head, then froze, straightening automatically as Morgana appeared out of the cave.

She was smiling, looking fresh and spotless in a dark dress with some kind of fur around the neckline. How _dare_ she look so calm when she had just been in there tormenting Merlin? Arthur once again pulled out his sword as the last of his knights came across the stream to stand by his side.

"Move out of the way, Morgana, or I shall run you through right now!"

"Then Merlin dies," she said lightly. "I thought that was the opposite of what you wanted, but we can—"

"No!" Arthur and Gwaine shouted at the same time, giving each other edgy glances.

"Oh, good. I thought maybe you had changed your mind again. These days, it's hard to tell what you want."

Arthur speared her with a look. "I want Merlin back, safe and sound in mind and body. If he's not…"

"You have no one to blame but yourself. He's in there," Morgana gestured to the cave loosely, "but it won't be easy. I don't think he remembers you. In fact, I don't think he remembers _anybody_, even himself. Which, of course, makes his magic a bit unpredictable. And dangerous. And here is poor Arthur going in, with only a sword to protect him from the big, bad warlock who used to be his best friend."

"Stand aside, Morgana," Arthur snapped as he moved toward the cave.

She drifted to the side, smiling to herself. "It's so ironic."

Arthur paused, hating himself for needing to hear what she meant. "What do you mean?"

"I would have to say that in the past, if Merlin had lost his memory and his mind and you came to him, he would trust you instinctively. You would have every reason to believe that you would be safe from him. But now…" She trailed off and gave him a wicked smile. "Now _you've_ driven him away, and I've driven him mad. When you finally confront him, who knows what the instincts of the most powerful warlock of the age will be?"

Arthur felt guilt and dread hit his stomach like two gauntleted fists. But his glare at Morgana didn't falter. "I'll deal with you when I return. Leon, guard her."

Leon didn't hesitate to come forward, armed and ready. Morgana just laughed. Arthur used a good deal of willpower to turn his back on her and walk to the cave's entrance. "Don't you want a light?" she asked, and a torch on the ground blazed into life. He picked it up, despite the way her laugh turned more malevolent as he strode forward. Not all magic was evil, and he had to see where he was going.

"Merlin?" he called ahead in a loud voice, thinking at the last second that he should have modified his tone: anger and forcefulness would work against him here. If Morgana had truly driven Merlin mad, then Arthur would have to win him over with gentleness and a show of humility. Thankfully, humility had been in much closer reach ever since he had discovered the truth about Merlin's secret life as his protector. _If only I had known…_

Arthur forced his mind back to the present as he entered the cave, the torchlight flickering across uneven rock walls on all sides. The cave was nearly the size of his chambers back in Camelot, but the ceiling here far overshot his own. His torchlight found the pointed ends of stalactites overhead, row upon row of them, some as thin as rapiers.

"Merlin?" he said again, more quietly, then stood listening as the sound echoed several times before dying. There was no movement in response, no sound—nothing. Which was _not_ a good sign. Merlin was forever hiccupping or humming, tripping or talking or laughing that ridiculous laugh of his. Quiet, like this? Quiet meant that Merlin was in mourning, or in pain, or worse—he wasn't Merlin anymore at all.

After a dozen more steps forward—Arthur keeping track in case off the possible necessity of a quick retreat in the dark—he realized there was a sharp left turn ahead in the cave. Arthur paused. "Merlin?"

A sharp cry answered him, one that sent him rushing forward, skidding over loose rocks and sliding to the corner only to see a bolt of light shot at his head. He threw himself to the ground, sending the torch flying.

Arthur left the torch where it lay sputtering against the rocks. "Merlin? It's me. It's Arthur."

"No light!" hissed a gruff, smothered voice. "Go away!"

If Arthur had never met Dragoon the Great with his aged, gritty voice, or heard Merlin trying to laugh off the pain of that terrible mace wound, he might have had a different response. But he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this was Merlin, though Morgana had obviously hurt him badly. "Why, Merlin? I just want to help you—that's all."

"Stop it! Stop _thinking!"_

"I can't stop thinking, that's impossible—"

"It hurts," Merlin moaned, panting. "I can feel your thoughts, your worry…"

"Yes, I am worried! About you, Merlin."

There was a pause filled with struggling breaths. "Merlin?" the voice said doubtfully, as if sifting through thoughts to find something that belonged to that name.

"Can I come closer?"

_"No light!"_

"I got that part. I'm going to leave the torch back there. Are you hurt?" Merlin gave no answer except a low whine that he choked out into a cough. "Let me help you."

"I'm trapped. _Trapped!"_ The sound of his breathing grew louder, and Arthur could tell he was close to panic.

"Calm down, Merlin—breathe."

_"Stay back! Back!"_

Arthur eased back a few steps and tried to talk soothingly to him, but judging by the struggling, choking sounds and the sudden cessation of noise, he did little good. "Merlin?" he asked sharply, and got no answer. Arthur rounded the corner again, climbed over rocks and moved toward the back of the cave, peering into the shadows. "Merlin?" Nothing.

Cursing, he went and grabbed the torch and brought it with him this time, raising the torchlight to peer along the walls. _Nothing._ Where was he?

A sudden groan sounded somewhere above him. Arthur looked up, fearing he would see Merlin's face there, but frantic to find him all the same. There was nothing but stalactites pointing down at him, and nothing to hear but Merlin's frantic cries echoing all around the cave until Arthur lowered the torch and dashed back again to the corner. They replayed the same frustrating scenario again, Arthur trying to help and Merlin panicking until Arthur got the hint. This time, he backed around the corner and waited—cursing quietly, head in his hands—for Merlin to regain consciousness.

It took longer this time—long enough for him to wish that he had thought to drink from the stream. And still, hot and sweaty in his armor, exhausted and parched, Arthur knew he had the better end of this scenario. Merlin was living a nightmare, apparently encased in stone so tightly that he could barely breathe, unable to think or to remember anything. There was no way to even tell where he was in the walls; his voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere—Morgana's work, to be sure.

Arthur took a deep breath, reclined against the wall of the cave, and tried to relax. His worry and agitation affected Merlin. Therefore, he would have to stay back, think calm thoughts, and talk quietly to bring his friend back to reason. He only hoped that it would be enough.

His torch was sputtering but still lit when Merlin awoke again. This time, he seemed to tolerate Arthur's presence better and didn't tell him to go away. That, at least, was something. But Merlin wasn't responding to direct questions anymore. Instead, he was mumbling, only half-coherently. Arthur had a hard time making sense out of most of it until he caught one word—Avalon.

"Avalon? Merlin, are you talking about the lake? The lake where you left Freya and Lancelot? Gaius told me—" He cut himself off and grimaced. These were probably not the best memories to try and stir in Merlin right now. But the mumbling continued, so Arthur tried again, louder. "Are you talking about the Lake of Avalon, Merlin?"

The voice halted and gave a gasp. "Avalon. Yes! A lake and a boat and a…somebody—and flames. Why flames?" his voice choked out. _"Why?"_

"Because someone you loved very much had died."

"Yes…yes…but I can't see. I can't see _who."_

Arthur swallowed. "Her name was Freya."

"Freya…Freya," the name echoed urgently around the chamber. "Who is Freya?"

"I don't know how to tell you. I never really met her." Arthur took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. "Merlin, listen to me. You went to a tavern with Gwaine over a week ago, and some girl gave you a drugged drink. Then Morgana showed up and did something to you, something that took away your memories. But you are magic, Merlin! If _anyone_ can undo whatever in the hell she did to you—it's you!"

"Me?" he asked softly.

"Yes! Do you have any idea how many times you've saved my life? I don't even know and I was there! You hid it from me. No one has the power to stop you. Morgana took the memory of that great power away along with the rest of it, somehow." Arthur's throat tightened. "And I'm so sorry, Merlin. This is all my fault."

"I have magic."

The quiet declaration made Arthur climb to his feet. "That's right. Morgana's done something to hold it back for a time, but she can't _really_ hold it back, not all of it. Just a few minutes ago you shot something at me, light or something. Just try to find it—it's there in you somewhere. I've seen it. Your eyes glow golden like, like—"

"Rings of fire?"

"Yes! Like rings of fire." Arthur ventured forward around the corner now, slowly. "Exactly. It makes you look very unlike yourself. The first time I saw it—"

A sudden, loud crack stopped Arthur in his tracks. Rock shifted somewhere to his left, the pieces grating horribly. Merlin cried out, and then there was an explosion that hurled Arthur sideways. Rocks pelted him, and a fine mist of dust filled the air.

Arthur found himself on the ground, coughing and in too much pain to get up. He wanted to find Merlin and make sure he was all right, but he couldn't seem to get off the ground and the sounds around him began to fade.

When he woke, disoriented and blurry-eyed, the cave was echoing with voices. _"Arthur!"_ the voices came from far away.

"Tell them to go away!" hissed a much closer voice. "It's too much!"

Arthur groaned, picking himself up. "Merlin? Is that you?"

_"Arthur! Are you all right?"_ More echoing voices.

"Go _**away!"**_ There were sounds of rocks being dislodged and another, smaller explosion from the back of the cave.

"Merlin! All right. I'll tell them. Just calm down." Arthur slowly stood up straight, picked up the still-sputtering torch, and walked toward the entrance of the cave. He called to everyone as loudly as he could stand that he was fine, that Merlin needed quiet, and that the knights should exit the cave immediately. After a quiet argument, Leon called that they were stepping back outside to wait.

Arthur headed back toward Merlin, fingering a cut on his forehead gingerly. It left blood on the tips of his glove.

He slowed as he reached the turn in the cave, stepping around it slowly and thinking calm thoughts as he moved forward. "So you're free now?" He looked up to see a dim figure by the back wall. "Well done. Are you all right?" Arthur moved closer, raising the torch, and froze.

Merlin _was_ free. He was standing straight, one arm outstretched, hand open. The warlock didn't speak, but his eyes sparked with golden-edged fury and his body vibrated with tension.

Arthur slowly held up his free hand. "Sorry. They should be out of the cave any second now. And I'm…I'll back up." Arthur took five steps back, but not before he had sized up Merlin's condition with the quick eye of a knight. What he saw was appalling. Merlin's bare torso was riddled with bruises, cuts and dirt-clotted abrasions, his face and arms covered in a wash of darkened blood and dust. "You don't look very good, Merlin. You need to come home and let Gaius treat those wounds. He can help you."

Merlin had relaxed slightly as Arthur moved away, but the tension returned in full form and his voice trembled as he spoke. "Gaius? I don't know who that is. Don't you understand? I don't know who _you_ are! How do I know if I can trust anything you say?" His hand made a pushing motion, and another explosion of rock behind Arthur made him twitch. Merlin's eyes glowed and his face grew feral for a moment, but then he faltered. The golden glow faded and his arm dropped. He staggered a few steps, obviously exhausted. Arthur forced himself to stay back.

When Merlin's deep blue eyes found Arthur again, they were lost and desolate. "Don't you understand? I don't even know who _I_am."

His evident misery forced Arthur forward a step. "I know who you are, Merlin. Finally. I _really_ do." Arthur nodded as he watched Merlin's eyes fill with tears.

There was a struggle going on inside his friend, and he saw Merlin waver before finally asking, in a whisper, "Who am I?"

Arthur smiled, though it was difficult. "You are son of a dear, sweet lady named Hunith, and of the late Balinor, a Dragonlord who passed his abilities on to you. Which means that you are master of the great and fearful dragon Kilgharrah, something I find impossible to grasp. You are a friend to many—Queen Guinevere, Sir Gwaine, and all of my knights among them. Many of them dropped everything to search for you and bring you back. You are the foster son of our healer, Gaius, who loves you and grieves over your absence so badly that sometimes…I can't stand to look in his eyes. Beyond the borders of Camelot, I have heard that you are Albion's brightest hope and the Light to an entire race of people, the Druids.

"But I know nothing of that. To me, Arthur, King of Camelot, you are no more and no less than my finest counselor, my closest companion and my protector. I have no secrets from you. We have come far together, Merlin, and I finally understand that I would be nothing without you." Arthur blinked away the wetness in his eyes and cleared his throat. "Trust me when I say that I will not leave you here like this, in this place. It would be like leaving part of myself behind."

Merlin watched Arthur closely throughout his heartfelt speech, but towards the end, his gaze faltered and fell to a point somewhere on Arthur's chest. Arthur frowned. "What are you staring at? Did you hear a word I said?"

"Your armor!" Suddenly Merlin was stumbling forward, arms outstretched. "I remember this! _This_—I was cleaning it, with a cloth, rubbing it over and over again. And I was…happy." Merlin's dirty and bloodied fingers shook as they danced across Arthur's breastplate.

Arthur managed a small smile. "You were happy cleaning my armor? Really? I must have missed that day."

Merlin's vacant and distressed eyes bore directly into his own. "Do you know about the fireplace? Were you there?"

Arthur had no idea what Merlin was talking about, and he saw that they were going to have to take this slow. He guided Merlin to sit on the floor, and the other man gave only a slight flinch at the contact—a definite improvement. Arthur sat beside him, taking a deep breath. "Good. Now, what fireplace?"

The conversation that followed was one of the most frustrating of Arthur's life. Detail upon detail was brought up and discarded until almost all possible locations had been crossed off. Finally, Arthur realized that Merlin was remembering the night before they had fought to retake Camelot from Morgana. They had been in the chamber of the Round Table, sleeping on the dusty stone floor. Merlin had no memory of Lancelot, who had been his nearest companion and the one who had been planning to knock over the Cup of Life with him. But he did remember the fireplace, and the warmth of having a friend nearby.

The extent of the effects of Morgana's spell was suddenly and horrifyingly clear to Arthur. Merlin remembered no one—only a few inanimate objects haunted his memories.

"Merlin, do you trust me?" Merlin's eyes flashed up, looking him over again. Arthur could see him trying to fit together his happy memory of cleaning armor with the man he saw before him now. "You need to rest. I'm sure your magic will put everything to rights again, but in this state of exhaustion it likely can't do anything." Merlin's gaze flickered tiredly around the cave and back to Arthur. Arthur took a deep breath. "If you want, you can cast a spell on me and leave it until you wake up. That way I can't hurt you." Merlin nodded and raised his hand. "But, that means I can't protect you, either, and—"

Merlin whispered something. Arthur felt darkness rushing at him and slumped into the smothering grasp of unconsciousness.

* * *

Merlin was waking slowly, the void of unconsciousness giving way to thoughts that had been trying to break through the fog in his mind for what seemed like a long time. It was a memory, just a small bit of one, but it was like a lifeline to a drowning man and Merlin snatched at it.

_"Begin at the beginning," Arthur said, gesturing idly with the goblet in his hand. He was in a fine tunic and breeches, without armor, sitting at a table. "I'm sure, whatever it was that you broke, it can be replaced."_

_Merlin answered him, grimacing. "Actually, I'm…not so sure of that."_

_Arthur gave him a curious look. Merlin clasped his hands behind his back and straightened his shoulders. It was hard to breathe. He felt as if he were about to throw himself off a cliff._

_"Arthur, I've been lying to you."_

Merlin jerked up and felt the memory world break into pieces around him. _Arthur._ That was Arthur. Where had they been, and what had he been lying about? Merlin had no answers. His mind was clearer, but still empty. He groaned softly. Every bit of his body was sore, scraped, or out of joint. He felt like he'd tumbled down a mountainside and lost nearly all his skin in the process.

There was only darkness around him, but he felt from the air and the echo of sounds that he was still in a cave. With a small gesture, he brought a blue globe of light forth. Only a few steps away was a motionless body. It was the Arthur from his memory, and the one who had found him here and told him his name and about his magic.

Carefully, Merlin stood and made his way over to the man's side. Arthur had identified himself as a king, and Merlin's close friend. But cast back on the uneven ground, dirty and bloodied, Arthur looked less a king than a defeated warrior. For some reason, that felt very wrong.

Merlin knelt and gently touched the armor again, his fingers lightly skimming the curved surface, brushing away dirt without conscious thought. Somewhere, in the depths of his mind, there had to be more memories of this man. From the small piece of conversation he'd just remembered, it was obvious that the two of them _had_ been close.

And if Merlin could read people, if his own senses meant anything, then those tears in Arthur's eyes had been genuine, and his moving words simplest truth. In Merlin's current state—a far cry past desperate—it would have taken much less than that to convince him to trust Arthur.

Merlin's eyes glowed softly, and Arthur awakened. He blinked once, twice, and then his gaze found Merlin.

"You put me to sleep," he said blankly. Merlin nodded. "You can do that?"

"Apparently."

Arthur sat up, looking disturbed. "Have you done that to me before?"

"I…don't know."

"Right. I'm sorry. You don't remember anything and Morgana is waiting outside." He leaned forward, his arms on his knees. "I think she expected you to try to kill me."

Merlin felt the blood drain from his face. "Kill you? But you said—why would I do that?"

"You wouldn't," Arthur said quickly, then cursed quietly. "I need to think before I speak. Do you remember anything else now?"

Merlin turned away, disquieted by Arthur's words. "I remember something I don't understand."

"What is it?"

"I remember the two of us talking, that I came to you and told you that I had…lied about something."

"Yes. I remember that very well." Arthur's voice had gone quiet, and he was looking down. "That was over two months ago, the last conversation we had before…all of this."

"All of what?" Merlin asked, desperate to have Arthur's casual knowledge.

"You had kept your magic a secret. That was the day you told me, and I…was very angry. I banished you. That's how Morgana found you and Gwaine wandering around. That's why you were such easy prey. Because of me," Arthur said quietly.

Merlin felt a sudden burst of anger, residue from a memory he no longer had. How dare someone take part of his life—his memories—and how was that even possible? He felt his magic stirring inside, seeking, and he fed it all he could. _Yes._ If something had been taken from him, then maybe it could be taken back.

He focused on the few memories he had left. If he could only find the end of them…and the beginning of the blankness…

"Merlin?" Arthur asked hesitantly.

His voice sounded very far away. A wave of dizziness drove Merlin to his knees and his eyes began to glow of their own accord just before he slammed them shut.

* * *

The instant that Merlin's eyes burned gold, the air around him exploded with light of its own—small, intensely bright dots of light forced Arthur to shield his eyes with one hand. Because of this, it took some time before he noticed that the lights were moving, drifting slowly toward Merlin. Since their color exactly matched the gold seeping out from under Merlin's closed lids, Arthur beat back his first instinct to try and protect his friend. He was trying to trust magic now, or at least Merlin's magic, and it appeared that his friend was trying to recover what he'd lost.

"That's it, Merlin. Keep going," Arthur whispered.

The quiet was shattered by a wordless screech of anger from the entrance of the cave. A deep voice shouted a warning—Morgana was coming. "I'll try and keep her busy, Merlin." Arthur ran, drawing his sword. "Just don't—"

Before he could even finish his thought, he was picked up and flung against the cave wall, held there by an invisible force. Seconds later, Morgana appeared around the bend, wild-eyed and already screeching, "'Where is he? What is he _doing?"_

She looked around at the lights and then fixed her hate-filled gaze on Merlin, who was still kneeling peacefully. Bit by bit, one by one, the lights were landing on his skin and sinking beneath. _"A__díede!"_ She screamed at Merlin. Without opening his eyes, the warlock simply waved a hand in front of his face as if he were batting away a fly. _"Astríce!"_ Her next attack fared no better. If Arthur could have found the breath to laugh, he would have, but the invisible hand holding him to the wall left him little air.

"He can't do that! What is…" Morgana stopped to stare at the ground beneath Merlin, where a wash of golden light had begun to seep up like water from an underground spring. "That's not his magic. That's impossible."

Arthur sucked in a deep breath. "Impossible? I thought you knew. He's Emrys, the most powerful warlock to ever walk the earth," he choked out.

Morgana looked at him, wild-eyed, then seemed to grow calm. "He may be Emrys, but I still have you, dear brother, don't I? And if I have you, I have everything." She moved to stand in between Arthur and Merlin. "Merlin, stop this at once, or I will kill Arthur."

At first, Merlin seemed to be ignoring her. Then Morgana repeated herself and his eyes flickered open, glowing as bright as a full moon. She screeched something and flung her arm back at Arthur. He felt the cave wall behind him give, growing soft and wet like mud. With horror, Arthur realized that he was being pressed back into its surface. He forced himself to focus.

"Merlin! Don't listen to her! Keep going! You have to remember!"

* * *

Merlin knelt, illuminated within and without by the light of deep magic. Despite the cacophony of noise in the cave, despite Arthur's shouts and Morgana's attacks, he could focus on nothing but the reclaiming of his own memories and the emotion they brought.

"_You're the one Arthur should knight. You're the bravest of us all, and he doesn't even know it._"

_"I put my life in your hands every day, Merlin, as do Arthur and Gwen and all of Camelot…"_

_"I now know who I really am, and it__isn't something to be afraid of…"_

_"If there's one thing I've learnt from my father's life, it's that titles don't mean anything. It's what's inside that counts."_

_"Merlin is a wonder, but the wonder is that he's such an idiot. There's no way he's a sorcerer."_

_"I want to think everything's all right, that we have Lancelot back."_

_"She is the darkness to your light, the hatred to your love."_

_"I won't sacrifice a friend to save myself."_

_"Without you, Arthur will never succeed…"_

_"I just wish I'd got to know him better. So much he could have taught me."_

_"If we cannot expose the true sorcerer, then we must invent one."_

_"Arthur, she's a troll."_

_"I thought you were going in for a hug…"_

_"Morgana's summoned an army of the dead. They're everywhere!"_

_"What is the life of a servant compared to that of a prince?"_

_"All I know is that for your many faults you are honest and brave and true-hearted and one day…you will be the greatest King this land has ever known."_

Merlin's eyelashes fluttered, his pulse leapt, and he gasped for air. He knew who he was. He knew who Lancelot was, and Gaius and Gwaine! And Freya, Leon, Gwen, Percival and Arthur—Arthur! Arthur was here, had come searching for him. Tears sprang into Merlin's eyes, and gratitude flooded his heart. He had a life, with friends and a mother and a mentor and a home to return to.

It was right about then that Merlin noticed the magic seeping out of ground and joining his own, supporting and strengthening it. It was not his own magic, but its kin. _Yes._ He recognized it. It was…it was something he had missed for years without realizing it. True love and true peace, distilled into magical form. He pulled it inside himself, felt its purpose in filling his own need.

_Thank you,_he said to the Ones who watched over him. Then he slowly stood and faced Morgana, who was busy torturing Arthur now. A torrent of rage stirred the magic in him, and the entire cave moved—just a little, but it was enough to get Morgana's attention.

"Leave him alone," Merlin commanded.

"So predictable. So stupid," she taunted him, despite the fear in her eyes. "What are you going to do, Merlin? Kill me? We both know you won't do that. And I'll never stop. So we'll just meet over and over again until I grow tired of it."

Merlin tilted his head, the newly fresh memories cooling the heat of his anger. "What happened to you, Morgana?" he said softly. "How did you come to this?"

Her face contorted. "Don't you remember? You started me down this path, Merlin, with your lies and your backstabbing and your _poison!_ I needed help—not an enemy!"

Merlin lowered his hand. Yes, he saw it. It could have gone differently. It wasn't meant to, but it could have, if his allegiance had been with her instead of Arthur. _But still…_

He raised his hand again. "No, it wasn't just me. You were struggling, but you were fine until Morgause took you away. Did she do something to alter you?"

"No! She did nothing! She loved me with a greater love than you'll ever know, you pathetic excuse for a—"

Merlin blocked her attack easily, and with the new strength granted to him, reached out and held her. She screamed and squirmed, but was helpless to move. Merlin lifted his chin, and his eyes glowed blinding white. With his magic, he moved into her mind, past the violently churning emotions and the barrier of defenses she'd erected. _There_. He felt it immediately.

There were thousands of tiny, gaping wounds in her mind, and a blankness where things had been ripped away. Merlin was enraged on Morgana's behalf, and filled with new sympathy for the horror she had become, perhaps without choice. He knew how it felt to have part of yourself ripped away, because it was exactly what Morgana had done to him, to a near-terminal degree.

She had done it to destroy Merlin, and to have him kill Arthur in his own mindless fear. But the very hatred that had driven her actions had been aggravated and controlled by whoever had cast that horrific spell on her. _Morgause._ It had to be her. Morgana had trusted Morgause, even though her sister had callously used her as a weapon over and over again in her fight to bring down Camelot. This was her doing.

Merlin focused on the blankness and forced himself to test it. The scream from Morgana was agonizing. _But it will be worth it, if…_

Merlin sent his magic back into the earth fearlessly, all that the Old Ones had gifted him with and all that made up his very body and soul. It sank deep, flowing into the magic of the Old Ones, joining like a stream does a river, finding its thoughts overwhelmed by greater ones, but its purpose unaltered.

Down beneath, there were many strange things—archaic whisperings that Merlin could not comprehend, intriguing pockets of creation still at work and a fluid essence tied to elements of the earth above. There were familiar things that called to him as well—the hum of deep magic, the peace of stillness, the joy of joining purposes with the power of the Old Ones—but he remembered his purpose and resisted.

_Morgana._ Was there anything of her that had been left to fall into the earth, where all of magic is eventually regathered? Merlin focused his mind on Morgana as she _had_ been: on her essence, her love of life, her unselfish devotion to others, and her frustrated desires for justice and equality—all that had made her…_her._

At first, it seemed there was nothing. But then Others joined him, the Lesser Gods moving and pulling until slowly, bits of light began to flow toward Merlin. He held them for her, letting them grow patiently, feeling his old desire for her fill him and help focus his efforts.

Yes, _that_ Morgana—the one in the scandalous dresses, the one who helped defend Ealdor, teased Arthur mercilessly, and made all the knights love her.

She had lost so much of herself to Morgause's madness, to this horrible spell. But he was getting her back, bit by bit. It was becoming harder, though...to hold on to her...and to himself...at the same time. _Morgana..._

* * *

Arthur was still breathing, but shallowly. Merlin's attack on Morgana had managed to undo her spell, heaving Arthur back out of the rock before it had fully trapped him. But the fall had snapped his right leg like a dry twig, and several ribs had given way when his momentum dropped him forward onto a boulder. Slowly, he had slid to the floor, only half-aware of the sudden silence in the cave and the pulsating power that found an echo in his pounding head.

Eventually, he opened his eyes to see that bright dots of light had filled the cave again. They seemed to dance over his head and drift to a kneeling figure not too far away. _Merlin?_ Arthur tilted his head. _No. Not Merlin._

The lights drifted closer to the figure, and Arthur's swimming vision fought to make sense of what he saw. It was Morgana, her eyes closed and her face relaxed and soft as it once had been, lit brilliantly by tiny stars landing all over her.

Arthur choked on a sob, the sudden rush of love for his lost sister too much to bear. If only she could be like that again…

Her eyes flew open, and they were glowing so brightly that he winced. By the light, Arthur could now dimly see Merlin behind her, one arm outstretched. What was he doing? _Oh, help her, Merlin…help her._

Arthur shifted and saw stars of his own that crowded out his vision until it went completely white. A rush in his ears overtook all other sounds until it, too, finally went away. When Arthur finally managed to get his eyes open again, wonder nearly stole his breath.

Morgana was kneeling beside him, one hand holding his, the other on his brow. But the fear and anger he expected to feel never came. She was smiling at him—a gentle, sweet smile that brought a fierce ache to his heart and convinced him that this had to be a dream. Or else he had died.

Even when she began whispering something he couldn't understand and her eyes glowed gold, he felt no fear. He closed his eyes and waited for…whatever came next.


	6. Chapter 5

Thanks again to Eilonwyn for her excellent beta work. She's amazing!

And thanks to all my readers. Your reviews mean so much to me and really have helped to shape this story.

For those of you who thought that Arthur needed to pay for his earlier treatment of Merlin in Burning Bridges, hold on to your hats. For those of my dear readers who are extra sensitive, um...hold on to everything.

* * *

Arthur woke in total darkness, bracing himself for pain that never came. "Morgana," he said, sitting up abruptly. Memories rushed through his mind—his broken body, her hand holding his—

"Merlin!"

Arthur was on his feet, feeling strength in a leg he knew should have been broken. Merlin had been trying to heal himself, to find the memories that Morgana had somehow locked away. Had it worked? Arthur huffed out a breath. If Merlin's spell had worked, then why had it been Morgana by Arthur's side? Or had that been a pain-and-exhaustion-induced illusion?

_"Merlin?"_he called out.

There was no answer—no disturbance in the blankness surrounding him. Arthur swallowed. Merlin had been standing behind Morgana which should have been…_ that way_. Arthur moved as decisively as he could in the darkness.

The cool, damp air barely stirred around him, empty of any sounds save those of his own blindly unsteady feet on the rocky ground beneath him. After ten steps, Arthur knelt, feeling with tense, outstretched arms for anything other than rock. There was nothing. He sat back and called again, frustrated by the lack of response. Dread settled in his stomach. _No._

The possibility that Merlin had escaped the tunnel on his own ruffled through Arthur's mind, entertained for mere moments. No. Merlin was here, and for whatever reason, he was silent.

Closing his eyes, ignoring the spark of panic he'd just felt, Arthur tried to reorient himself. He began moving ahead—sweeping his arms out, trying to feel for what he couldn't see. It was too quiet. Long minutes passed, and a dark desperation took hold of him. "Don't do this to me, Merlin," he whispered. "Don't do this to me!"

When his hands finally touched something softer than rock, he gasped and grabbed at the thin arm, travelled up—stopped to rip off his glove—and blindly felt the familiar slant of Merlin's cheekbone before sliding a gentle hand over his mouth. "Merlin?" Nothing…not even the faintest of breaths.

"No," Arthur choked out, shifting to put a palm on Merlin's chest, feeling the grit of dirt. He held his breath, willed Merlin's heart to beat…but there was nothing there. Nothing. Merlin's skin was cool and he was laid out properly, as if prepared for burial. Arthur tugged off his other glove and reached up to feel his friend's face again, gently…so gently. When his fingers found the lifeless, staring eyes, Arthur cried out. Small shudders shook him as he forced himself to nudge Merlin's eyelids closed. _How? How could this have happened?_

Arthur clenched his teeth and climbed to his feet. "Morgana!" His roar echoed around the cave hopelessly. She had done this—somehow. _"Morgana!"_ He turned and strode forward, heedless in the blank blackness, intent on finding his way out and making Morgana pay—until a sudden sob stopped him in his tracks. _Merlin._ The words he'd spoken earlier came to his mind like a whisper.

_"I will not leave you here like this, in this place. It would be like leaving part of myself behind."_

Something in Arthur broke. Grief tore its way out of him like jagged pieces of metal, sending him to his knees. Flashes of thought hit him like lightning strikes, his blood pumping in his ears like thunder. He wanted to kill Morgana, kill Gwaine, kill himself for failing Merlin. He couldn't breathe. He saw Gwen's face and Gaius's face, twisted in grief, heard Morgana's laughter…saw Merlin again, fingers dancing over Arthur's armor, dark eyes blinking and confused.

Without conscious thought, Arthur found himself at Merlin's side again in the dark, grasping at him, needing and at the same time hating to feel his friend's lifeless body. "I'm sorry, Merlin. I'm so sorry," he rasped.

The keen blade of grief bowed the king in two, filling him with a darkness as vast and impenetrable as that which surrounded him…

Some time later—whether it was eons or years or minutes, Arthur had no idea—a shrill, inhuman scream wrenched him from his thoughts. It was distant but penetrating, and in the blank dark, it had the power of a physical blow. Arthur shook his head, his mind suddenly clear. What was he doing? Sitting and grieving like a helpless dolt when a threat was approaching? That sound had come from Morgana.

Pulling himself together, Arthur quickly cleaned his face and hands on the least offensive part of his sleeves, fumbled for his gloves, and put them on. His sword was gone, impossible to find without light. It had clattered to the ground when Morgana had thrown him against the wall in her tantrum. Arthur huffed out a shaky breath. He felt for Merlin's body, shifting and gently raising him to lie over one shoulder as Arthur stood, shuddering at the familiar, helpless feeling.

He'd done this once before, hauled Merlin's senseless body this way. That haunting memory would now replaced by this nightmare: Arthur shuddering his way through darkness and stumbling and dry sobs that threatened his resolve as Merlin's limp form tapped against his back.

Morgana's voice came shrieking through the cave like a stream of bats, finally giving Arthur a clearer sense of direction. He moved faster and soon saw light reaching around the corner ahead.

"Arthur?" a weary voice called as soon as he stepped into the main cavern. Light flickered to his right and Arthur trudged in that direction, steeling himself to meet Gwaine. "We've finally got Morgana under control. She's gone barmy, won't say a word." He paused, and his tone changed. "Where's Merlin? Is he better?" Gwaine sucked in a breath and raised the torch as his eyes found Arthur and his burden. "Is that him?"Arthur kept moving, quicker now, past Gwaine as he started a barrage of questions Arthur couldn't even begin to answer.

Arthur paused to breathe past the renewed throb of grief and then kept walking as Gwaine caught him up. The knight was touching Merlin, begging for an explanation that Arthur couldn't provide. Another dagger to carve out his heart—the first of many to come.

The light of day relieved the blackness around Arthur, providing some much-needed visual distraction from the dark that had consumed him. Ahead, he saw the rest of his knights guarding a huddled figure. Morgana was folded in on herself, sobbing weakly.

Gwaine's hands were desperate for contact with Merlin, and Arthur allowed him to take Merlin's head and shoulders as they carefully laid their friend down on the ground. He averted his eyes the knight went through the process Arthur had already been through—shaking with grief, touching Merlin, apologizing and, at the same time, trying to prove to himself that there was no life left in his friend's body. Arthur paused. Now he could see what he'd only felt before—Merlin was dead.

_How—?_

Rage flamed and Arthur moved, ripping Gwaine's sword out of its scabbard and stalking toward Morgana. He relished the feeling of power that flooded his veins as he hefted the borrowed sword, noting the slight differences from Excalibur and automatically adjusting for optimum control. Percival and Leon stepped back from the pitiful wretch of a witch collapsed on the ground.

Elyan's gaze moved past Arthur to Gwaine. "Sire…is Merlin…?"

Arthur ignored him, and hefted the sword in the air over Morgana. "What did you do to him?" he yelled hoarsely. She keened and wept, still looking down at the ground. "Look at me. _Look at me!"_ As soon as she did, he pressed the blade of his sword at her throat. "What did you do to him?"

"Arthur?" Her voice was raw and gravelly, her pale green eyes bloodshot and wild. "Is it you?" Her face went through spasms, and Arthur thought he saw fear, grief, anger, and madness fighting for dominance. "Oh, Arthur! Arthur—I'm so sorry. I'm so _sorry!"_ Her voice disappeared in another torrent of weeping, and the rage Arthur had felt began to lose hold.

"Merlin. What did you _do to Merlin?"_

The name seemed to penetrate her grief, and she grew still. "Merlin. Yes, Merlin-that-was-Emrys. He was a vessel."

Patience gone, Arthur roared and drove Gwaine's sword into the ground beside them. Then he hefted Morgana under her arms and forced her to stand. Elyan and Percival sprang forward to help. As they supported her, Arthur got hold of her chin and looked fiercely into her red-rimmed, vacant eyes. _"What did you do to him?"_

Her eyes wide and sad, she murmured. "No. I didn't…he was a vessel for the gods."

"What? For who?"

"The gods, the ones who control magic." She seemed to come back to herself then, pushing and slapping at him until he released her on reflex. As she stumbled away, her memory seemed to become stronger, and she grew angry. "They were giving him their power. He already had so much! But all he had to do was ask and they were doing it! They were healing him! Or he was healing himself. And I wanted to stop him. How dare they help him when no one helps me! No one!" she shrieked. "But he didn't care how much I hated him. He just…reached past it and found where I was broken. And then…he fixed me." Her watery eyes found Arthur's again. "I didn't want him to do it. I wanted to hate you, to hate him forever. And now I can't. I can't! And—oh, Arthur, I remember now. I've done horrible things." Horror grew in her eyes until it seemed to encompass her whole face. "To you. How could I do that?" She walked forward on stilted legs, reaching toward him. "Arthur, help me. I don't know what to do."

Then, suddenly, Gwaine was there, eyes wild, crying out for vengeance and ripping his sword out of the ground. He was going straight for Morgana's throat.

"Percival—" Arthur jumped to hold Gwaine back, with Percival right behind him. It was not easy. Gwaine used every ounce of strength to try to get his sword into Morgana—and he didn't seem to care where it hit her, as long as it made her die. Arthur, who completely understood the sentiment and was loath to hurt an already hurting man, helped Percival get Gwaine in a choke hold and then, gently, took away his sword.

Breathing heavily, he apologized to Gwaine and gave Percival a nod. "As soon as he gets hold of himself, take him to the water to cool down." Arthur gave Gwaine's shoulder a heavy hold. "I'll take care of this, Gwaine."

Gwaine's gaze slid back down to Morgana. His muscles tensed, and his nostrils flared.

Percival grimaced. "He's not got hold of himself yet."

Arthur eyed Morgana's nearly prone form. Elyan was helping her stay on her knees, but she was swaying and weeping steadily. The change in her was unnerving, and Arthur had to work hard to understand what had happened. Until now, it seemed, her evil deeds had remained disconnected from her past self and all that had guided her youth. Arthur shook his head. When Merlin had healed her, he must have forced those two parts of herself back together. The Morgana that had been was being forced to confront the horror of the witch. Arthur felt both pity and horror for her, as well as a steady, simmering rage that remained just under the surface.

He knelt beside her and took her arm firmly. "Morgana, you healed me. Why didn't you heal Merlin?"

"I tried," she sobbed out, burying her face in her hands. "I tried to help him! But it didn't work."

"Why not?" he asked, then shook her a little when she didn't answer. "Why, Morgana?"

"Because he isn't there!" She pulled her hands away from her face and screamed at him, eyes streaming. "They took him and I'm _glad!_ I will never forgive him for this—_never!_Just let me die." She collapsed, sobbing, and Elyan finally gave up, letting her settle on the ground in a heap again.

Arthur stood and backed away, mind reeling. He turned to Merlin. There his friend lay stretched out on the rocky ground, pale, bloodied, every scrape and cut livid against the pale skin, breathless…lifeless. The strength went out of Arthur's legs, but he forced himself to stay standing.

Long minutes passed and Morgana quieted. Wind played in the tops of the trees, changing the patterns of sunlight that pierced through the thick foliage onto the ground below. Arthur watched as Percival led Gwaine over to the stream to wash and calm down, the smaller man confessing brokenly that Merlin's death was his fault. When he could, Percival spoke back in low, solemn tones.

"Sire?"

Leon was addressing him from across the creek, at the other end of where Gwaine was now sitting, looking lost. Arthur blinked. He hadn't thought to tell Leon to watch the perimeter, but the faithful knight had been doing his job despite the fact that he looked unsteady and appeared to be bleeding from an untreated gash on his head. Things obviously hadn't gone well when the knights had tried to restrain Morgana.

"There's someone here." Leon gestured to the woods beyond the creek, where dozens of silent, cloaked figures had appeared out of nowhere.

Arthur startled, then remembered the Druids were peaceful folk. He stood his ground and called across, "Why are you here?"

_"We are here to see Emrys,"_ Arthur heard in his mind. In a flash, he remembered the way they had once healed Leon, and that they regarded Merlin as their savior and future ruler.

Arthur rushed forward. "Can you help him?" he called across to them. "Quickly! He is here."

One figure came forward, an older man with a carved, oaken staff. "I have come to see Emrys," he spoke aloud in a lilting voice. Percival, after getting a nod from Arthur, moved forward to assist the man in stepping through the creek. "Thank you, my child." This wrung a small smile from Percival. "I am Alator," the man said as he reached Arthur, "and I am known to Emrys. I serve him even now."

"Then you can help him? Please, anything you can do..." Arthur said, feeling hope beat wildly in his chest.

"I do not know, but I will try." Alator knelt beside Merlin, his impassive face giving way to grief. Slowly, he pulled down the cowl of his robe, revealing a smooth, hairless scalp and ears that stuck out almost as much as Merlin's.

Grief twisted in Arthur as the Druid laid his hands on Merlin's chest. _Good magic,_ he reminded himself, _there _is_ such a thing as good magic. It will be enough; it has to be enough._

The Druid grew still and closed his eyes. It took several minutes of long waiting before Alator sat back and sighed.

"What?" Arthur snapped. "What happened?"

Alator stood to his feet, his sorrowful eyes finding Arthur's. "The witch is right. Emrys…is no longer here." A wail went up from the Druids and they turned away, reaching out for each other.

"What does that mean—that he's not _here?"_

Alator sighed. "Emrys called to us, his power seeking out help as he fought to heal the one who threatened Camelot and the life of its Once and Future King. We assisted him, offering as much of our own power as we could. It took even more than we could give, so much that Emrys turned to the magic of the earth itself, where lay the foundations of the Old Religion and where the lesser gods still move. I felt him empty himself completely. Fearing that the unthinkable had happened, I sought him out here."

"The unthinkable?" Arthur whispered.

"Merlin's presence on the earth was a gift to all of Albion, but no man is meant to walk the earth forever. He was here to meet you, to challenge and mold you, to do battle with your foes, and, in so doing, alter Camelot's future and bring about the dawn of Albion. Perhaps he has finished his work." Sobbing grew from the group of Druids, and Arthur found his own eyes moistening again.

"That's ridiculous," Arthur snapped. "He wasn't finished. I've only just learnt what a disaster I am without him. If he doesn't return, Camelot will suffer. Albion will remain an unattainable dream. So bring him back. Tell them—the lesser gods or the greater gods or whoever the hell is listening—tell them to give him back!"

"Hell, yeah!" Gwaine agreed loudly.

Alator frowned and knelt again beside Merlin. "Perhaps…" Once again, he stretched out his hands, this time not touching Merlin but leaving his hands to hover in the air over him, feeling for something Arthur couldn't see.

Arthur huffed out an impatient breath, keeping in all the desperate words he wanted to say. He needed Merlin back. What did they want him to do—journey to the underworld to prove it? Beg? Gnash his teeth and rend his garments? He'd do it—he'd have already _done_ it— if it would do any good at all, if they would only give Merlin back.

Alator sat back once again and stood. This time his eyes went straight to Arthur. "I do not know why he has not returned, but I can guess. I think this has to do with you."

Arthur stopped breathing. He stepped closer to the Druid and forced out the quiet words, "Tell me."

Alator looked deep into his eyes and nodded at what he found there. His voice was no more than a whisper. "You have been judged, Arthur Pendragon, and found wanting. The result is that Emrys has been taken back to where he was birthed from, and his future is uncertain. If you wish him to return, you must do all in your power to be worthy of his power, his fealty, and his friendship."

"How?" Arthur asked from between clenched teeth. "Tell me how."

"Emrys has given to you unselfishly, sacrificed much, and been rewarded little. His was the way of suffering, and I thank the gods that portion of his life has ended. If he were to return, it would need to be to a Camelot that recognizes his worth and treats him with the honor he deserves. You must bring about this change. If the gods see your work, your sacrifice, and your unselfish devotion to Emrys—if they deem it worthy—then he may return. He is a creature of magic, and as long as that magic lives, he lives."

Arthur's eyebrows rose. "He lives?"

"Careful," Alator cautioned. "His magic lives, but deep in the earth where all magic lies, and where even we cannot reach it. The gods are watching you, Arthur Pendragon. Be worthy, as only you can be."

Arthur felt the light of the new idea burn in him so brightly that he had to turn away from Alator, from everyone. He heard voices around him, but could not break his focus from the new burden that had been placed on him: making Camelot a place fit for Merlin and proving to the gods that Arthur was the Once and Future King, a leader among men, capable of great acts of compassion and finally worthy of Merlin's friendship.

Then the timbre of the voices around Arthur changed, and Gwaine was shoving him aside. Everyone was staring, mouths open, eyes wide. "Merlin?" Gwaine said nervously, hands hovering over him in a strange echo of what Alator had done. Arthur gasped. Something was happening to Merlin—his skin was…glowing, the dirt, blood and signs of abuse winking out in the light.

Arthur moved to Merlin's side across from Gwaine and crouched down, unnerved into silence. This was magic, and it wasn't magic from Merlin; it was happening _to_ him. Gwaine gave a shout as the light from Merlin's body grew and pierced their eyes. Arthur turned away, despite his desperate need to see for himself. A high-pitched whine grew in his ears. Elyan was at his side, pulling him back, when the light and sound reached a climax, bowling them both over.

In the stillness, a soft fragrance of honeysuckle and clover washed over them, and the light suddenly winked out as if it had never been. Arthur sat up slowly, already knowing what he would see. He had felt it the very instant that Merlin's body had left this earth.

Now there only remained a group of grieving friends behind, feeling the last of their hopes drain away.


	7. Chapter 6

The journey back to Camelot was a nightmare—Arthur torn between the cold comfort of unrelenting guilt and the fire in his veins to set things right. Time seemed determined to play tricks on him: minutes of a sleepless night would drag on for days, then hours would speed by in a blink, Arthur rousing himself to realize that he'd ridden without conscious thought for most of the morning. It was beyond disorienting. His knights took to watching after him, prodding him when he paused for too long, his mind spitting and crackling like a wet candle wick. It helped him remember that his life had not ended with Merlin's back in that cave, even though it felt as if it had.

Somehow, it was worse that Merlin was _gone,_ that there was no body to bring back, no proof that they had found him, much less tried to save him. Instead, they were bringing Morgana home, a pitiable wreck of a human being whose presence brought far more problems than solutions. They kept her loosely tied and under watch, though she showed no sign of wanting to escape.

Truthfully, Arthur didn't know what to do with her and didn't have the emotional resources to deal with her right now. Only time would tell if she would return to the sister he had once known or stay forever an enemy of Camelot. The law of Camelot called for her death, and she herself had begged for it. But his heart quailed at the thought. Hadn't there already been enough misery and bloodshed?

Every now and then, Arthur's gaze would fall on Gwaine, and there he would see, in full glory, a reflection of his inner misery. The knight was wretched. At first, he'd gone eerily silent. But after two nights, Gwaine had found his tongue around the campfire and started talking—about Merlin, about his magic and all the things he'd kept secret. It seemed to bring the knight some measure of peace. Arthur had heard these stories, at least from Gaius's point of view, but the other knights hadn't. It was interesting to see their reactions.

The reveal of Merlin's magic didn't hit any of them as hard as it had Arthur. They seemed to see Merlin's constant protection of Arthur and of Camelot as admirable, though Elyan had many pointed questions regarding the warlock's relationship with the dragon Kilgarrah. Gwaine was understanding, but passionate in his defense of Merlin's selflessness and brilliance, getting choked up on occasion. As the campfire burned low, Gwaine told the true story about the goblin who had possessed Gaius, taking the entire group from solemnity to hilarity in mere moments. Even Arthur smiled through the twinge of pain he felt at finding out that Merlin, when ending the spell on Arthur, had let the donkey brays linger as repayment.

How was it that there had been so much about his best friend he had never known? It was hard to take in the big things that Merlin had hidden, yes, but even harder to take in the small things. For some reason, the details were exquisitely painful to learn. But Arthur did understand that it all came back to magic. Gaius had managed to impress upon the king that Merlin's lies were a house of cards, all built on the base of keeping his magic secret. He could not tell the one secret, and so more and more lies had to be told to keep it safe.

Arthur dumped out the remainder of his water onto the fire, watching it hiss into mist. Grief had shrunk his heart to a small bit of lead. He wanted nothing more than to return home and lock himself away to grieve properly, but that would mean facing Gwen again, and Gaius. What could he possibly say to them? He rubbed one gloved hand across his mouth, blinking as he became aware of the knights watching him. They made no attempt at conversation.

Instead, the knights went off to bed one by one, leaving Gwaine alone by the fire with his thoughts and Arthur alone outside the circle of light to keep watch. The night stretched on like a dark trail under a moonless sky, and Arthur began to pray for words to say what he must when they arrived in Camelot the following day.

Still, as they rode into the city gates, to the rejoicing of his people that melted all too quickly into unsure, curious stares, Arthur felt no words come to him. When Gwen appeared first on the stairs, running down to throw herself into his arms for a comforting moment, then pulling back, eyes bright with fear and dread…he was still speechless. Despite himself, tears burned in his eyes. To the unasked question, he gave a silent answer, a shake of his head. Gwen seemed to break in two, then, falling against him and sobbing.

Arthur automatically sought to pull her away from the public eye, to keep her from showing weakness, but his heart was with hers. The two of them walked up the stairs supporting each other, passing Gaius, who seemed to know without being told that Merlin was gone. As they approached, the healer backed away, a deadness in his eyes that Arthur would never forget.

In the end, the words had to be found, the story had to be told, but Arthur was only able to force himself through it entirely once, with both Gwen and Gaius in attendance. It was difficult to explain how Morgana had returned and Merlin hadn't when Merlin had apparently healed her only _after_ healing himself. From what Alator had said, and what Arthur himself had witnessed, it seemed that Merlin had given every bit of magic he had to heal Morgana and somehow lost himself in the process.

It was a conundrum that the most powerful warlock of any age would be so concerned for others that he would give everything he had to save someone else—even an enemy. But then again, hadn't that been in Merlin from the very beginning? Hadn't that been his theme: "what is my life worth when compared to that of others?" And all that time, he had been so powerful, so important—_Emrys._

Arthur stuttered his way through the end of the story, some instinct telling him to cut it short before revealing everything Alator had said. He saw the burden on his shoulders shift to those around him and felt more weary than he ever had in his life. Then the king and his wife withdrew to their chambers, a habit they cultivated over the next week.

Eventually, over time, the story of Merlin's loss trickled out, and many grieved sorely. By mutual agreement, the knights kept his magic a secret so that his memory would not be sullied by fear or hatred. Without a body, there was nothing to burn for a service, and Arthur held off on a public ceremony that would be nothing but a lie. None of the people of Camelot had known who Merlin truly was, and could not grieve for him as the savior and courageous man he had been. That knowledge weighed on Arthur's heart like an anchor.

He voiced this again to Gwen one night, two months after their return to Camelot. The Queen turned to him, her eyes full of a familiar sorrow. "I know. He deserves so much more, Arthur."

"Of course he does." Arthur held out his hand, and Gwen crossed to him. She took his hand and sat beside him on the divan, nestling into his side where she fit best. Arthur put his arm around her, frowning. "But how can I lead them to appreciate his deeds if his very presence here defied the law?"

"Change the law," Gwen said simply.

"How? With Morgana here, languishing in the dungeons, it has never been more clear to Camelot's people that magic is evil. She is the perfect example of how magic corrupts."

Gwen grew still against him. "How did Merlin change your mind about magic being evil?"

"He didn't," Arthur said in surprise. "It was…" He trailed off, his thoughts spinning off in a new direction. "It was…yes…that's it!"

He jumped to his feet and walked to the window, standing exactly where he'd stood after hearing Merlin's confession and seeing his terrifying display of magic. That had been just over four months ago, but to Arthur, it felt like years.

"You've got an idea, haven't you?" Gwen asked hopefully.

Arthur felt a true smile curve his lips for the first time in far too long. When he turned around to look at Gwen, the smile grew into a smirk. "I think I do."

* * *

Arthur sat on his throne, trying to loosen his jaw enough to smile as he watched the last of the lords and ladies sweep into the great room. The noise rose and fell like a tide as they moved to the tables lined up and down the room—ready for the repast to come. Arthur's fixed expression began to waver. Despite his cool demeanor, he was well aware that today was the most important day of his kingly life. Today he would truly begin his great destiny as Merlin had foreseen it, or so Arthur hoped.

A small, beautifully brown hand slipped to his left knee and pressed down, forcing Arthur to halt its jiggling. His eyes sought out Gwen's and found amused love there. "It doesn't matter what happens today," she said in a low voice, "you've done a good thing, Arthur." A brief pain swept through her face. "Merlin would be so proud."

Arthur took her hand in his and gave it a brief squeeze in return. Gwen didn't know the true implications of the outcome of today's events, for Arthur had decided not to reveal the whispered words of Alator to her, or to anyone. He had his reasons: what if Arthur had misunderstood? Alator had been vague at best, only offering a theory as to what had taken Merlin away from them and what it would take for him to return. Getting Gwen's hopes up over an impossibility seemed too cruel when she was just now coming to terms with Merlin's death. Arthur knew he had done the right thing in keeping it from her.

As the last few people took their seats, Arthur prepared himself to speak, his eyes sliding over to a figure sitting at a table on the floor to his right. Morgana, clad in dull yellow, her raven locks shot through with silver, sat complacently between her constant companions, Sir Leon and Sir Thomas. The fact that she was allowed to sit among the others without undue attention was testimony to how much change had already occurred in Camelot. At one time, Arthur thought it might have been impossible.

The people of Camelot had been justifiably terrified to see Morgana brought home, apparently repentant and seeking reconciliation. The partial explanation Arthur had given surely did not do much to inspire confidence, but he could not reveal Merlin's role in her healing, nor was he convinced that he wanted to do so. At first, Morgana was housed in the dungeon and kept in chains that hindered the use of magic. She submitted numbly and pled with her eyes every time anyone approached her chamber. Arthur visited with her several times, at first suspicious of her changed nature. But over time, she convinced him of her verity, chiefly by recounting events from her side, confessing to everything and expressing her desire to make restitution.

To that end, Arthur allowed her to meet with those she listed out and ask for forgiveness, one by one. These meetings met with mixed results. Some were willing to listen, some refused. But word began to spread of her desire for peace and forgiveness. Arthur and his council finally reached a decision and had her moved into her old chambers, under guard. Once there, she seemed more at peace, though her manner and drive seemed to fade. She became a mere ghost of herself, pale and listless. When she could be convinced to dine with Arthur and Gwen, she rarely spoke.

It was one of these dinners where Gwen had suggested that Morgana might do something to help the poor. The idea took possession of Morgana, in a way that Arthur found familiar and endearing. She would not rest until they had found a way for her to visit widows and orphans, taking food and clothing for distribution. She still wore magic-inhibitor bands, but a lighter pair made as comfortable as possible. Sir Leon and Sir Thomas accompanied her on these visits, then reported to Arthur. They spoke of her old smile returning, and how she seemed energized by her interaction with those who needed her. In any case, she was never left alone, but was watched and guarded, in the most gentle way that Arthur knew how.

Now she was here, allowed to sit among the lords and ladies of Camelot, gracing them with a small smile. Arthur nodded in her direction before standing. As he waited for silence, icy prickles attacked his hands. How he wished he could conduct all state matters with a sword in hand! Finally, all were quiet and attentive, their eyes fixed in his direction.

"Lords and ladies, you are welcome to the palace today. It has been far too long since we've all visited together, and after this meeting, I invite you to stay for refreshments here in the great hall." There was a pleased murmur around the room.

"But for now, let us turn to business. I stand before you today as your king to admit to a grievous error that has not only cost lives, but a great deal more than that as well. As kings are but men, I guess it stands to reason that mistakes must occasionally be made. I am no more perfect than my father was, or his father was before him when he first took Camelot's throne.

"In fact, the error in judgment that I am admitting to is one that has been handed down to me just as this crown has been."

Unable to hit the subject head on, Arthur diverged on another path. "When my father and mother were unable to conceive an heir, they turned to a family friend, a sorceress, for help." Gasps went up from around the room. "I assure you, this is the truth as vouched for by Gaius." Many heads turned in the old man's direction, and he nodded. "Thank you, Gaius. It's time the truth was told. My father struck a bargain with the witch Nimueh, asking for her help in safely bringing an heir into the world. As asked, Nimueh helped my mother, and I came into being. However, the witch didn't explain the possible outcome to my father, or so he claimed. It is not possible to know exactly what she told him. But she knew that to gain a life, a life would have to be taken so that the Old Magic would stay in balance."

Arthur paused and took a deep breath, feeling the weight of expectation on his words. "When I was born, the Old Magic took my mother's life in payment, and my father was inconsolable. He blamed Nimueh and turned on her in his grief. He outlawed magic, seeking to put all magic users to death. You know this time as the Great Purge. But my father didn't stop there. He sought out anyone who protected magic-users and anyone remotely connected with magic. All were executed—drowned or burned. I grew up within this madness, was taught hatred of magic from the cradle, never understanding that it had not always been this way and that it did not _have_ to be this way."

The grumbling around the room grew loud, and Arthur raised his hands. "Please, hear me out. This will not end as you expect." This seemed to buy him a little more time, though many now watched him with suspicion. "My conscience smote me over the years as I watched the magic users killed, but I found ways to push that aside, to be the young prince my father needed me to be. That might never have changed had I not met one person."

_Damn._ Arthur had to take a few deep breaths to steady himself as emotion crowded in on him. "This man entered my life in the unlikeliest of ways, a humble, unassuming person who demanded no respect but earned mine over years of faithfulness. I had no idea he was…magical. I just knew that he was a good man, a man who became the first true friend I had ever had—no offense meant to any of you good people. This is my fault; I am not the easiest man to befriend. Over the years, he hid his status as a warlock from me, unsure of my reaction, knowing that I would feel the revelation a betrayal in the most painful of ways."

The crowd was dead silent. Arthur couldn't tell if they had guessed the identity of the unknown man or not, but he pressed on.

"When he finally came to me, willing to confess his greatest, most dangerous secret, I responded with rage and a hardness of heart that shames me to remember. I hardly listened to him, instead striking him in anger, calling in the guards to restrain him. When I banished him, refusing to listen to his side of the story, he gave me a brief demonstration of immense power and it shattered my beliefs to the core."

Arthur shook his head. "It went against everything I understood for this man to be so powerful and yet hide in an unassuming guise. It cemented my belief that he was evil, as I believed all magic-users to be. I felt justified. Merlin, my servant and dearest friend, was cast out with nothing—only a stubbornly loyal knight to keep him from trouble."

Once again, the noise in the room climbed to a crescendo, Merlin's name being repeated over and over. Several lords had risen to their feet.

"But he's dead," Lord Argon said loudly. "Why bring this up now?"

"Please, sit down, and I will continue." After a moment of hesitation, the lords regained their seats. "I am bringing this up now because Merlin's name must be cleared of wrongdoing. He was my hidden protector and wielded great power on Camelot's behalf, though I treated him poorly sometimes and never gave him the recognition he deserved. I would like to remedy that mistake."

Lord Baylor jumped to his feet, blustering, his mustache bristling. "But he was a magic-user! By law, if he were here today, you would _have_ to put him to death!" He frowned. "If he weren't already dead, I mean. Of course."

"Thank you, Lord Baylor, for making my point so clearly. Merlin was one of the most noble and courageous men I have ever had the privilege of knowing. Yet, if he were here before us now, he would be put to death simply for existing, for being born with magic—and then again, for using it here in my defense. That is wrong. I propose to change Camelot's law so that magic-users are only to be punished as all men are, based upon their actions. Simply possessing magic does not make a man worthy of death. If that magic is used to harm, then the person should be punished, just as a person who possesses a sword should be punished for using that sword to harm. Magic does not make a man evil."

"Sire, if I may speak?" Lord Hereford was on his feet now.

"Of course," Arthur inclined his head.

"Thank you, sire," the man said pompously, walking into the aisle so that everyone could see his portly, overstuffed form. "I want to make a simple point. If this were to be true, and I cannot doubt his majesty, then we would be asked to believe that you were unaware of a man practicing magic in your presence daily. That seems…unlikely."

"Perhaps. I wonder, Lord Hereford, how many servants do you have in your employ?"

"We have five, your highness—two of which we share with my mother's household."

"Could you name them for me?"

Hereford turned to look at the other lords, as if pausing to see the possible trap in Arthur's words. "Of course. That would be John Farmer, John of Shatterly, Little Meg, Peggy, and…I'm forgetting someone….ah, the new girl, Brooke."

Arthur took a deep, calming breath in through his nose. All was won or lost here. "Brooke, you say?"

"Yes, your Majesty. She helps with the ladies' work around the house, cooking, feeding animals, and tending to the dairy if we're short a worker or two."

"Is she here today, Lord Hereford?"

"Why, no—I don't—I mean, of course, not here in the castle, but she did accompany my wagon and is out at the market right now. Is there some reason—"

Arthur interrupted Hereford before he could pull together his obviously confused thoughts. "Yes, thank you. Could you send someone to go and fetch her? I need to speak with her here."

Lord Hereford bristled. "Are you implying something about my home or the people in my employ, sire? I'll have you know—"

"Of course not. It's a simple question that I need to put to her. You shall all hear the results. Until she is found, let us have a song. The minstrel Robin Lovejoy is here, and and I have asked him to sing a few songs to cheer us while we wait. Robin?"

The crowd whispered among themselves as Robin came to the middle of the room, strumming his lyre and grinning widely. Arthur sat back down in his throne, carefully watching the lords and ladies respond to Robin's beautiful voice and lively playing. Robin had two roles here today, and it looked as though he was playing his first spectacularly, as only a few of the guests slipped out. The servant's testimony must be heard.

Lord Hereford still looked affronted, and he set to whispering during the song, but at Arthur's pointed smile, he subsided. Lord Baylor and Lord Argon, the other two most vocal of his lords, were watching the crowd, seemingly resigned to waiting.

After two songs, sooner than Arthur had dared to hope, Brooke appeared at the double doors of the great hall. Arthur gestured her forward, and motioned for Robin to halt his song. "Come forward, Brooke."

The pale girl with sad eyes and lank, blonde hair stood dumbly in the doorway, frozen, her gaze on all the lords and ladies in their seats. "Please, don't be frightened. Gwaine, if you would escort her forward, please?"

Gwaine looked surprised to be singled out, but jumped forward to offer his elbow and a wicked grin. Brooke slipped her hand through his arm and blushed slightly. Arthur felt prickles of dread in his stomach for the girl. He was asking far too much of her. This testimony would take as much courage as a knight's in the heat of deadly battle.

Whispers and titters spread through the crowd. Arthur kept his eyes on Brooke's and gave her a smile as she came forward the last few steps on her own, stopping at the foot of the plinth. "Brooke, how long have you worked for the Herefords?"

She tried to speak, but, at first, nothing came out. "F-f-five months, sire, if it pleases you."

"It does. And tell me, Lord Hereford, have you ever seen her display any behavior you found shocking or in need of reprimand?"

Lord Hereford jumped to his feet and came forward, his voice ringing out loudly. "Absolutely not! My wife swears by her cooking, and I can find no fault with the girl. Had I done so, I would have most assuredly sent her on her way."

Arthur paused, waiting for perfect silence before speaking. "If she were practicing sorcery, would you know?"

There was a gasp around the room, and Lord Hereford turned pale. "Of course I would! I know everything that goes on in my own house…that is, no offense meant to you, sire, but I am certain that signs of sorcery would be evident were she practicing."

"I am not offended, Lord Hereford, but you may be when you find out that Brooke hides a secret. Brooke?" Arthur looked at the girl, who had gone paler than milk and was trembling. "Please, Brooke. No harm will come to you."

"I've got your back," Gwaine whispered, stepping closer.

Brooke looked back at him, then up to Arthur beseechingly.

Arthur stepped off the plinth and looked down into her eyes. "I know it's difficult, but if you do not do this, then he will never return. We must all be brave."

Brooke squeezed her eyes shut. Arthur stepped back up on the plinth and sat on his throne. "Proceed." With a look, he told Leon and Elyan to be ready for anything.

Brooke lifted her hand in the air, whispered quietly, and a flame appeared, dancing over her palm.

The reaction was instantaneous. Men and women jumped to their feet, some screaming, some calling for her arrest, some too horrified to speak. Arthur's knights rallied, circling the girl and pulling their swords out to defend against anyone who tried to harm her.

"Lords and ladies, please calm down. Take your seats." After a moment more of outrage and anger, the guests did as they were bid. "Brooke is here at my request. Lord Hereford, would you put her to death for conjuring that flame?"

"Yes, of course! It—I mean…the girl is dear to me and to my wife, sire, but we had no idea we were harboring a magic-user. Please, take her and do as the court wishes."

"She should be put to death!" Lord Baylor hissed.

"And if my father were here, she would be." Arthur turned his sternest look upon Lord Baylor, who met the king's eyes only briefly before looking down.

"But that was a different time, I suppose."

"Yes," Arthur said, then repeated himself louder. "Yes. It was a different time, a time of ignorance and fear, when the name of Camelot was tarnished with fear-mongering, hatred, and injustice. I cannot judge my father harshly; he did what he thought was best, and I took part in his regime, as a son must. But I, as king, can do no less than he did: I must also do what I think best. Seeking out the Druids and learning more of their peaceful ways has led me to believe that magic-users and non-magic-users could peacefully coexist in Camelot, that we could have the benefit of their magic used well—to bring about better crops, to heal the sick and reinforce the foundations of this kingdom.

"The fact of the matter is that Brooke is not the only Druid in Camelot. The other servants I invited to live here have gathered outside at my signal and now await entry. They are putting their lives on the line for peace. It is a noble thing they are doing. I will inflict the severest penalties the law allows if anyone takes out their anger and fear on these people. They are protected by the crown of Camelot." Arthur met the eyes of many lords who appeared to be considering their options. "Please, allow them entry."

The guards opened the doors, and a flood of servants entered the room, silently and with lowered heads. From around the hall, gasps were heard as the faces were recognized. Arthur was proud of the Druids for their hope, tenacity, and willingness to suffer for their future. The outcome of this meeting was in no way certain.

The knights of Camelot gave way, widening their circle and allowing the Druids in, trying to look as though the idea of magic-users filling the room didn't alarm them.

"This is madness!" Lord Hereford spoke out, and the buzz in the room died down. "What if they were to attack?"

"Thank you again, Lord Hereford, for making my point," Arthur said promptly. "If someone magical were to attack, we are defenseless, so much more than we were before, when Merlin was here to help. We need someone on our side against magic-users who are evil. These Druids are going to help. They will defend the city when need be."

"But what if _they_ attack?" Hereford insisted. "You keep skipping over that part."

"Yes, well—that is because you are asking the wrong question. Magic-users are not evil by nature—what you have been told all your life is a lie. This is a handpicked group of excellent, brave and trustworthy Druids who will be on the side of Camelot. Do you think I would be foolish enough to welcome them otherwise?"

"You welcomed Morgana back," someone called out, setting Arthur's teeth on edge.

"We have been over this many times, but we may revisit it if need be." Arthur tried but couldn't find the coward who'd spoken up. "In fact, I can now bring new information to light. Merlin was the warlock who healed Morgana of the spell that split her memories from her soul, just after healing himself of the same affliction. I don't know what happened, but I have to believe that it was that selfless act that, in fact, pulled Merlin out of his own body, leaving only a shell behind that could not sustain itself. His final legacy was to end the strife between my sister and myself. I will forever be grateful to him for that."

This news seemed to impress the lords and ladies.

But would this help or harm Camelot's stance on magic now? Arthur looked out over his people and felt their mood shifting. They were thinking of Morgana and her amazing healing. They were missing Merlin and trying to reconcile his bumbling, clumsy self with the idea of a being of such power that he could work miracles. Arthur felt the ghost of a smile grace his face. If they hoped to puzzle him out in one go, they were going to be sorely disappointed.

"I hereby name Iseldir, the Druid leader, a special appointment to my council. He will help us form the new laws on magic, making them fair, equitable, and easy to defend. Iseldir." The Druid stepped forward, his earnestness evident in his solemnity as he went down on one knee before Arthur.

"Thank you, sire. I will be happy to serve in that capacity."

Lord Baylor stood once again hesitantly. "But my liege, how would any man not from Camelot be able to govern magic within the city's walls?"

"He will not be alone. Gaius will aid him." Arthur gestured to the healer, and the old man stepped forward proudly. He had been glad to stand for magic once again, nearly overcome with emotion when Arthur had asked him. "Gaius knows of our history with magic, as well as being privy to the mind of Camelot's kings. He will be an ideal helper in this capacity. I have assigned him two aides to help him with the job of healer. It is high time that he pass on his wisdom to a younger generation."

Gaius raised an eyebrow and Arthur saw a few responding smiles from the crowd. _Yes, this is how it should be. _

"Now I welcome you to once again be seated. Our scribe, Geoffrey of Monmouth, has a tale to tell. A year ago, I asked him to meet with Gaius and try to set down in writing all the events that happened from the time Merlin arrived until his death. I wanted to know and to share the details of how Merlin learned about his destiny, and how he came to be the protector of Camelot and my best advisor, as well as my friend." Arthur, choked up, simply gestured to Geoffrey, who stood with a thick stack of bound vellum in his hand and began to read.

They all listened in shock as Geoffrey started, not at the beginning of the story, but at a part that all remembered and most had taken part in—Morgana's last attempt to retake Camelot. None had known of Merlin's role in that rescue, how he had protected Arthur, kept him safe, inspired him, and returned him to take back over the throne. Arthur himself had only found out recently that Merlin's spell was the reason Morgana had been unable to work her magic on them in the throne room.

Proud but hurting, Arthur gestured to Robin, the minstrel, who stood up and began to sing _The Ballad of Merlin._ It was a melancholy tune, one that Arthur had no doubt Merlin would have hated, but it fit Arthur's mood perfectly.

He could not help but ruminate, as he often had over the past year, over whether he had even a chance of becoming the kind of king that the Old Ones demanded: the Once and Future King of Albion. He now had in him an "inner Merlin" that nudged his conscience. Arthur had learned never to ignore that voice the way he used to when his friend was alive. Now he considered it a blessing to have any part of his friend's wisdom and good heart still invested in himself. He shuddered to think of the man he might become if he ever lost it.

Arthur clenched a fist. He could not do this without Merlin—surely that was evident to the gods. This fact continued to give Arthur hope; it was why he dared to bring Druids into Camelot in the first place. If the gods wanted Albion and a Once and Future King, then they would have to give Merlin _back._

Gwen reached over to lay her small hand on Arthur's fist. Taking a deep breath, he forced his hand to relax. He looked around the room again, trying to gauge the response of the lords and ladies to the song and the tale that had been told. Many of them looked thunderstruck, and just as many were wiping away tears. Even among those who had been most vocal, there was no open rebellion that Arthur could see. It was interesting that implanting Druids as servants in so many high-ranking households had changed their outlook.

A smile ghosted across his face as the last of the notes faded. Arthur stood and addressed the crowd. "Please, remain and have food and drink. We have much to discuss. In the meantime, Robin, if you will continue." Arthur gestured to the minstrel and he began to sing again a song that likened the birth of Merlin to the dawning of a new age.

As Robin sang, the light in the room suddenly dimmed as if an enormous cloud had swept across the sun. Arthur sent Elyan to check the window with a jerk of his head, nodding at Percival to follow. When Elyan turned back and gave Arthur a sign, the King stood and excused himself, motioning for the people to take their seats as they stood out of respect for the crown.

Arthur, Elyan, and Percival exited the castle quickly into the courtyard, slowing to stare at the darkening sky. Arthur had never before seen its like—dark, rolling thunderclouds ate up the sky like a malignant fungus, casting a sickly green light on the land below. Lightning tore through the clouds briefly and struck just outside of Camelot, followed by an immediate clap of thunder that sounded like an explosion. All of the knights jumped at the sound.

"Everyone, inside," Arthur called out to the servants working in the courtyard, and there was an immediate scurrying to disappear. Arthur watched the sky darken further and wondered what sort of new test this might be. Another lightning strike had him heading indoors himself, his knights close behind. There were five more strikes before the sky gradually grew lighter. For all the noise and bother, very little rain fell. Arthur was left to wonder at its purpose.

* * *

The lesser gods had gathered in a hill just outside Camelot, vibrating with excitement. The power granted by the Old Ones for their need had been surprisingly generous, and it had been painstakingly gathered and massaged and woven into a familiar design. Oh, how they gloried in their occupation, bringing back to life what they had taken, giving such a gift to Albion as had never been given before.

"Let us make him perfect," they said, and a thrill went through them all at the thought.

"Yes! But…what is perfect?"

The thought had their minds whirling, fracturing as each thought of a different thing. What made them individual also made it impossible to agree. Then one said, hesitating, "Was he not perfect before?"

"Ah, yes…perhaps he was," they sighed, remembering with joy the sweetness of his smile and the gangliness of his limbs and the way magic moved through him like sweet syrup even as it changed the deep blue of his eyes to gold.

"Even more perfect as a little one," another remembered, and their minds were cast back to their joy at watching his form grow and change, remembering how they had protected and kept watch over him.

"Ohhhhhhh," said one excitedly, "let us make him young again. Please!" Their excitement caused a small tremor in the hill as the lesser gods shook with pleasure.

But a thought from the Old Ones stopped them cold. "He must be Emrys now. He is Needed."

The lesser gods bowed in humble obedience. They must sacrifice their own joy for the earth, for the people, for Albion. The consciousness of the Old One moved on and the lesser gods stirred again.

"Then let us…let us make him young for a time, even if it is a short time," one suggested, and all agreed, quivering with joy at the thought.

The earth underneath the hill began to change—melting, swirling, pulling to itself memory and life and magic. The lesser ones fed of themselves into the mix—hope—joy—love and peace—watched as it formed a thin, translucent sac around a core of intense, almost blinding power. The power pulsated, swirled, and changed color several times, finally settling on a deep, dark blue. The lesser ones sighed with pleasure and began their watch.

Within hours, the power had shrunk to the size of a fist. It was tiny and dense, palest ivory now, barely visible through the sac. The lesser gods fed it power constantly and watched with joy as arms and legs sprouted, insignificantly small though they were. As the form turned and moved, a face became evident, though it was days before those brilliant blue eyes would open once again.

Several shivered at the thought. "Soon we will behold him again!"

It was true that he had been with them while he had been dead, but not as himself. All the magic that had made him had been scattered into the earth, mixed and melted and reforming here and there, but never enough for him to be…_him_. As much as those above had missed him, the lesser ones had missed him, too.

After another day, he was a fully formed baby, but one growing far faster than any human had grown before. Magic sped him through the stages of development; hardly had the lesser ones rejoiced over his eyes opening before he was reaching and kicking and thinking. At the advent of his thoughts, muddled though they were, the hills once again shook with joy.

At first it was gentle images about the soft warmth of the hill and the love that surrounded him. But as he grew into a toddler, the lesser ones began his education in earnest. Communicating their love to him every second, they nonetheless bombarded him with words, pictures, and memories—simple at first, but becoming more complex by the hour.

Merlin's understanding grew as quickly as his body, still encased in warmth, in a pliable sac far under the earth. The magic fed him, helped him grow, and the lesser ones stretched his mind. Soon he was ready to learn about his father and his mother, then Gaius, Arthur…Camelot.

At first it was an image of glory and highest calling, then a physical place that Merlin could go. Then came his memories in earnest: he had been there, lived there, hidden his magic there.

As his body matured into adolescence, the sac dissolved, leaving him cradled only by magic deep in the earth. Soon, he fell asleep, triggered by his mind's need to explore the new memories and resettle the powerful images he'd been given. It was overwhelming to see the dichotomy of his life—power to be exercised only in secret, a constant double life that led to so much grief. Even in sleep he was overwhelmed with emotion and wept silently over the memories, over what he had lost and the way he had died. He had never meant his secrets to cause so much pain to Arthur, to Gwaine and to everyone he loved. How could he have left them like that? He needed to return to Camelot. The thought woke him instantly.

"Yes," the lesser ones told him, "but you are not ready yet. Be patient."

Merlin sighed and acquiesced, falling asleep once again. As his body rested, dreams filled his mind and magic flowed, filling the cavity under the hill with intent and power until the earth itself began to change.

* * *

Please review so I'll know you guys are still reading! :) Thanks so much for all the support and thanks to Eilonwyn for the beta!


	8. Chapter 7

It began with Percival showing up during a council meeting.

Camelot's burliest knight had come back from patrol, sweaty and out-of-breath, insisting that the king should follow him out on horseback to a place about an hour away. "You just have to see this," he said, seeming frustrated with his inability to put it into words. "I think it means something, and that only you will be able to tell us what that is."

Arthur's brow furrowed. Where was the rest of the patrol? His gaze flitted to Elyan, who stood in the doorway, accompanying his large friend. But Elyan merely shook his head, looking apologetic about having no more information to share.

"The others rode on," Percival explained, "they wanted to see it up close. Will you come?"

Arthur took a deep breath and looked Percival in the eye. He had never known the knight to be deliberately obtuse or misleading, or to take advantage of his position as one of the king's inner circle. "We will leave immediately," he said, holding up a hand to silence the protests of several council members. Trust was something that Arthur made a point of exercising on occasion, to remind himself that there were those in his life that he could depend upon.

"You won't regret it, sire," Percival said.

Then a strange thing happened—time and distance melted, and Arthur and several knights were all seated on their usual mounts, the horses' hooves pounding the ground, the knights feeding off of Percival's urgency.

_Ah…this is a dream_, Arthur decided. His mind was remembering, relishing the events of that day just as they had happened. _Then let me dream._

Long before they arrived, those in front began exclaiming, and Arthur could see for himself the phenomenon that had so moved Percival: where once there had been only a slight rise, there was now a towering hill. Atop the hill stood a strange stone formation the height of five men: rods of stone that seemed to spray out from the ground in the design of a star. It seemed impossible.

The bases of the rods were buried deep in the earth and the tips pointed heavenward toward the azure sky. Even more incredible, the earth around the rock looked undisturbed, as though it had been there for decades. Yet it hadn't. According to Percival, the formation had appeared over the span of a week, growing like a ludicrous plant.

Arthur led the way to the hill, noting his errant patrol among the many others that had gathered—some to worship, some to gaze, and some to wait for their king's arrival. There was a palpable sense of awe and dread about the place, keeping all those gathered at a distance.

Arthur alone approached the summit, driven by some inner compulsion or need to understand. There was a strange hush in the air and a sense of breathless anticipation. This ground was hallowed. Arthur sat, slowly, and removed his boots. Despite the dread in the pit of his stomach, he crept closer, needing to see more, feeling something familiar in the air—something strange and sweet. At the top of the hill, he discovered a deep green carpet of grass marking a perfect circle around the rock formation.

"Hello?" Arthur called out, then immediately crouched, feeling the pressure in the air build into a strong buzz in his ears. The ground trembled underfoot. _"Sorry,"_ he whispered, grimacing.

"Sire?" Percival called up to him. Arthur stood slowly and gestured to keep the knight back. Instinctively, he knew there would be worse consequences if anyone else disturbed the peace of the hill.

The king began to back away and then froze as he caught the faintest scent of clover and honeysuckle in the breeze. _"Merlin,"_ Arthur whispered, falling to his knees. Percival had been right: the king _had_ needed to be here. Something he'd done was right; Camelot was moving in the right direction The king bowed his head_.__"Thank you."_

A shudder of relief went through his body, and it was a moment before he could pull himself together enough to stand. When he reached the other knights awaiting him, there were still tears standing in his eyes. Despite that, he looked each of his knights in turn before he spoke.

"This hill is a sacred place. Do not cross into that ring, and warn the people away. They must not interrupt the work of the gods." He turned to look back at the large edifice, the might and strength of Camelot's gods displayed for all to see for miles around. "From this time on, this place shall be called Merlin's Hill."

Arthur woke with a jolt.

Though bleary-eyed from lack of sleep and still blinking away the warm feeling of purpose from his dream, he was on his feet in an instant. The ground beneath his feet was still, as it had been since some time near dawn. Or had he simply slept through more unrest? Arthur scrubbed at the stubble on his face and called to his guard.

"Yes, Sire?"

"Report."

"The earth has ceased its shaking, but there was damage during the nighttime tremors. The kitchens lost one inside wall, but there were no injuries. The masons are already there, surveying the damage."

"Are the kitchens functional?"

"Yes, Sire."

"There have been no attacks, no signs of enemies approaching?"

"None, sire."

"Thank you. Send for my servant. I am ready for the day." The guard hesitated, and Arthur raised his eyebrows in expectation of protest. The guard reconsidered and simply nodded. "And make sure no one disturbs the queen this morning in her chambers. I'd like for her to have a few more hours of rest."

"Yes, sire." The guard left with a determined look.

Arthur blew out a breath. Yes, he was exhausted. _Yes_, he would rather have slept in after two successive nights of ground tremors big enough to set the furniture dancing in the castle and to cause lesser buildings significant damage. But he was the king, and he would not shirk his duties.

Arthur walked over to the window and pushed it open, surveying the courtyard below. Everything seemed in order. Merlin's Well still stood in its place of honor in the center with a long line of peasants waiting to draw the sweet water from its depths. Rumors had been flying around the city that the water itself was magical, able to cure lingering illnesses and prevent infection. Arthur had to admit, he rather suspected so himself. It certainly tasted better than any well water he'd had before, and, well…it rather sounded like something Merlin would do.

The sudden appearance of a bubbling fountain of water in the collapsed center of the stone courtyard had, at first, seemed too good to be true. It had opened up under the onslaught of the first tremors Camelot had experienced over the last month. By the time Arthur had been summoned, the area was blocked off with sawhorses to prevent curious onlookers from trying the water. But after a week, the water had been tried, first by animals, then by a few foolhardy knights, the royal taster, and finally by the king himself. It was declared healthful and a blessing of the gods.

When the masons and workers had dug down deep enough for a well, it was discovered that the water came from an underwater stream flowing directly from Merlin's Hill. It was Gwaine who had first popularized the theory that it was a gift from Merlin himself. The idea had caught the imaginations of the people, already full of popular stories about the warlock. They frequented the new well more often than the old one and told tales of its miraculous properties.

Arthur himself preferred its light and fresh taste to that of the old well water. He hoped that his servant would bring some with his breakfast. Whatever properties it had, he would feel better able to face the day with Merlin's blessing on him.

"Good morning, sire," said a low voice. Arthur turned to see his new servant, Darby, entering the room with a tray of light breakfast.

"Your water," the man said, offering a golden goblet of water to the king. Arthur took it and looked his servant over as he drank. Darby, usually crisp and well-turned out, looked haggard and almost unkempt.

"Did you not sleep last night?"

"It was difficult, sire. Helena is terribly afraid of those quakes and she clung to me like a little monkey." Darby had two children by his wife, Gavina, and talked about both of them an inordinate amount. "We couldn't get back to sleep until she went back down. Thomas took it like a man, though—slept through the whole thing."

Arthur smiled at the picture. He hoped that one day he would have children to adore, though raising the future rulers of Camelot would be a daunting task. "I hope we've seen the last of them."

The two of them went through the regular motions of the day, both ignoring their exhaustion. Once Arthur was shaved and fed and ready for the day, he decided to head up to the west tower to see the outlying areas of Camelot. His heart quickened at the thought.

Ever since the stone starburst had appeared on Merlin's Hill, it had been impossible to ignore all the signs pointing to an advent, to a momentous occasion the like of which Camelot had never seen. Everywhere in and around Camelot, the natural world thrived. Food had been plentiful and better-tasting. The weather had settled into a milder climate, with rain a predictable one day out of every four. The hunting was astoundingly good. Inside the city walls, there had been a population boom with babies born to nearly every young family, and the crops had been thrice that of the year before. Goodness was everywhere, and Arthur couldn't help but feel that Destiny was at work again.

As he neared the tower, he saw that he was not the only one wishing to survey the land around. In fact, a small crowd had gathered, talking excitedly and looking out to the west, toward Merlin's Hill.

"Sire!" The crowd turned and fell silent.

Arthur strode forward, and the crowd in front of him melted away. He knew what to expect on a normal day. Even from this distance, the Giant's Star would be visible, as well as a line of people heading out of Camelot down the road to make a pilgrimage to Merlin's Hill, many Druids among them.

But when Arthur reached the edge of the tower and looked off in the distance, he could tell that something had changed. The pilgrims were headed in the wrong direction; they were returning from Merlin's Hill. And the hill—the hill itself had been altered.

Arthur was off with his guard as soon as they could be found, desperate to see for himself the changes wrought during the night. As he mounted his horse and snapped a few last orders, someone striding toward them caught his eye.

Was that Gwaine? Astoundingly, the knight was clean, close-shaven and grinning as he strode toward Arthur, looking very unlike the unkempt and bitter man he'd been for the past year.

"Princess!" he crowed, instantly taking Arthur back in time to happier days.

"To what do we owe this pleasure, Gwaine?" Arthur asked, refusing to make this easy for him.

"Oh, I just felt like going for a ride."

Gwaine was back in his knight's gear, expecting to accompany the king. Arthur paused, his horse shifting under him. "As one of my knights?" he asked, his gaze piercing Gwaine's own until the man looked down and away.

"If you'll have me," Gwaine mumbled, finally forcing himself to meet the king's gaze, "now that everything has changed."

The look of joy in Gwaine's eyes took Arthur by surprise. "What's changed?"

To his irritation, Gwaine laughed, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. "Everything. You'll see soon enough."

Arthur jerked at the reins of his horse. "You may accompany my guard if you wish. Just keep your incoherent mumblings to yourself."

"Sure thing, Princess."

Arthur was smiling as they rode out. It felt right to have Gwaine with them, even if he was being annoyingly cryptic.

They rode to Merlin's Hill as hard as their horses would go, swinging out wide of the road in order to give way to the pilgrims and other foot traffic. Arthur was nearly frantic to get there, though the changes were visible long before they arrived.

The starburst had been pulled apart. Somehow, the slabs of rock were balanced, one atop the other, in a large circle that exactly matched the ring of grass already there. It was the most fantastic thing Arthur had ever seen, a work of precision and beauty and of such scope as to be naturally impossible. Only magic could make a thing so…perfect.

And yet…

One other thing was different. As he dismounted, Arthur realized there were no Druids in the thin crowd around the hill, a first since the Giant's Starburst had appeared. Moving closer to the stones, he felt the reason. The sense of awe and of power that had pervaded the atmosphere and hallowed the ground was gone.

Arthur spun around, searching for something—for someone. _Surely…_

When his eyes failed to find the figure he was looking for, Arthur ran to mount his horse again. "Follow me," he thundered out, and began to race trails across the countryside for the better part of the day, seeking far and wide for any further signs of magic. There had to be something. Surely, the tremors during the night had meant _something_ other than rocks being moved.

Arthur rode until he could no longer find a reason. Exhausted and frustrated, he snapped at Gwaine. "Do you have any further words of wisdom for us? Anything beyond 'everything's changed,' and 'I can't say,'' and 'you'll see for yourself soon'?"

Gwaine had the grace to look guilty. "No, sire. I don't understand. I thought…" he trailed off and shrugged. "Maybe we should head back to the castle."

Arthur, gritting his teeth at the setting sun, bit out his agreement. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but this wasn't it. Something was meant to have happened. This was supposed to be the day of his reward. And instead, all he'd gotten was frustration.

He followed his knights home with a heavy heart, sure that he had again fallen short somehow and that all of Camelot was going to pay for his many mistakes.

Leaving his men to themselves, Arthur headed into the castle, ignoring everyone until he reached the guard at the entrance to the king's hall. "No one is to enter my chambers tonight." Then he paused. "Give the Queen my apologies."

"Yes, sire."

Exhausted and alone, Arthur took the stairs up to his chambers. The weight of disappointment clung to him like a leaden garment, and he had to pause on the last landing to catch his breath. The goal that had driven him for a year dissipated like the morning fog. What was left? He was sure there were other reasons to keep going, to fight for his people and his kingdom, but at the moment, they all escaped him.

He closed the door, barely noticing his surroundings as solitude wrapped its mantle around him. No one would disturb him now—one of the benefits of being a king.

He stood unmoving, defeated. He was in such a state that it was some time before the warmth and light in his chambers caught his attention.

"Arthur?"

The king jerked and whirled around, feeling himself go pale. That voice—

"I'm here."

And suddenly—he was.

Merlin was standing there, the ghost of a smile on his face, looking whole and the same, but different, and with so many emotions stealing through his deep blue eyes that Arthur couldn't even attempt to follow them.

"Merlin?"

"Arthur, I'm back," he said, smiling with affection and warmth in his eyes.

Arthur reached out to him slowly, remembering so clearly the feel of his friend's dead body, haunted by those moments of starkest grief and fearful of visiting them again. He gasped out a near sob when his hands touched solid flesh. "I did it," Arthur whispered. "I did it!"

Merlin laughed. He actually laughed. _"__You_ did it? You think you single-handedly brought me back to life? That's a tall order even for the Once and—"

Arthur interrupted by pulling the warlock into a crushing hug. Merlin seemed shocked into silence, but Arthur was too busy breathing in Merlin's familiar scent—the humanity and the magic and the clover and honeysuckle. "I've been looking all over for you," he choked out. He knew there were other things he should say, but was helpless to say them.

Merlin gave a slight shrug from inside Arthur's arms. "Guess nothing's changed, then," he said lightly, though his voice was tight with tears. "Not really."

Arthur gave a bark of laughter. "Nothing? Try everything."

He felt Merlin's shoulders shake and thought he was joining in the laugh at first.

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I am. I am _so sorry."_ The tears and misery in Merlin's voice finally made it through to Arthur, and he pulled back from the embrace.

"Merlin," he said in amazement, "are you actually _apologizing_ for dying?"

"Uh…erm…I guess I am." And Merlin gave one of those guileless, goofy shrugs of his that had Arthur grinning and laughing in pure relief. Despite the wisdom and power that radiated from the warlock, and even with his new, neatly trimmed beard and mustache, this was still the same old Merlin.

"Then stop it, really. No more apologizing." Merlin gave him a grin in return until the king felt positively silly. He gave Merlin's shoulders one last squeeze before releasing him. Something inside him had begun to right itself, and with it came the knowledge of all he must say to his friend. Arthur's smile died.

"I am the one who must apologize, for turning on you and banishing you. I was wrong. It was my fault that Morgana…" At the serious look on Merlin's face, Arthur trailed off, his emotions crowding to the surface again. He moved away from his friend and sat heavily, facing the fireplace. "You were dead, Merlin. Dead. For a year, and it was my fault."

Quiet invaded the room, the only sounds those of the crackling fire. Arthur dreaded Merlin's next words, and at the same time longed for them. He'd waited so long to hear the anger, the rage—the blame. He deserved it.

"I know you feel that way," Merlin finally said, and something in his voice sounded different. "I remember everything. I remember what you said and what she did. I remember how you found me then and everything you said in the cave." Merlin walked over to Arthur slowly and put a hand on his shoulder. "I remember." He paused, and his grip tightened. "I have to ask: are you ready for this?"

Arthur looked up at Merlin hesitantly.

"I think you are." Then Merlin's eyes flashed gold and burning embers swept up from the fireplace filling the air. Arthur gasped. The flecks of fire were moving and shaping themselves into something. The flow of gold took Arthur's breath away, but not because it frightened him. It was beautiful.

"This was the view from the mouth of the cave. Do you see it?" And suddenly, Arthur did. In the picture built out of embers, he saw the stream swimming by, broken up by lines of tree trunks, the view enclosed by walls of rock on all sides. Merlin's voice was somber as he continued. "I looked at this every day, all day. I didn't know who I was or how I'd come to be there, not until you came and told me. You saved my life, Arthur, and that is every bit as real as anything you did before hand." The golden air painting faded and Merlin moved to kneel beside Arthur.

"I know that I hurt you and I'm sorry for that. I know that you're sorry for what you've done as well. But we've both paid for our mistakes and for our sins—heavily. Let's talk no more of those." Merlin paused, and Arthur glanced up to catch the deep sorrow in his eyes. The king nodded.

Merlin gave him a brief smile and then stood. Arthur watched as the warlock paced a few steps away, taking in the tense set of his shoulders. For the first time, he noticed the midnight blue tunic and well-fitted pants and boots that Merlin was wearing. Where had he gotten those, and when had Merlin gotten so tall? Arthur shook his head. _Not smart questions to ask when someone has the power to come back from the dead,_ he chided himself.

Merlin turned back to face the king, and there was a look of strange intensity on the familiar features. "Before I returned, I was given a vision, Arthur, of the future. I know how it all ends."

"Ends? What do you mean?"

"What we will build here—the peaceful nation of Albion—is a beautiful but a very fragile thing. It will take every ounce of courage and strength that we have to hold it for any amount of time."

Arthur rubbed at the tense spot between his eyes. He took a deep breath, willing himself not to ask the question. But in the end, he had to. "Then why are we doing it? If we're just that sure it's going to fail?"

"Because it _is_ beautiful, Arthur. While it lasts, its glory will outshine the sun in the sky." And Arthur saw, in Merlin's face, the beauty of the dream, the glory and the hope. "It is worth it. You will see it yourself, one day."

Arthur nodded slowly, standing to his feet. "I believe you. But only if you stay to guide us, Merlin. Otherwise, we are doomed."

"I know. Why else do you think I returned?" he replied cheekily.

Arthur laughed. He sensed the conversation moving back onto more familiar ground. "To plague me, I have no doubt. All I've had since you've left has been one servant after another, each more competent than the last, and all without a spark of personality."

"You prat. Do you actually think I came back from the dead to be bothered with making up your bed and cleaning your britches?"

"Some would consider it a privilege."

Merlin snorted. "Then get them to do it. I have more important things to do."

Arthur smiled. "Yes, you do," he admitted. "For example, being on the Council, working to establish laws to govern magic and being my royal advisor."

A wide grin battled for dominance on Merlin's face. "You expect me to do all of that at the same time?"

"Of course. It's not like there's anything else you need to do."

"Thank you, Arthur," Merlin said sincerely.

Arthur waved away his thanks, grinning. "I'm suddenly starving. Want something to eat?"

Merlin eyed him warily. "You mean, you want me to go down to the kitchens and get some food for us?

"No. I mean, Merlin, are you hungry? I can get a servant to get us some food."

"And I'd eat it here? At your table?"

"Yes. Or anywhere you like. And you can start practicing that royal advisor bit. I have quite a few questions about this magic of yours."

"That sounds excellent. But…I think that there are a few other people I need to go see."

"You came here before seeing Gaius?" Arthur asked, surprised.

"Of course," Merlin said with a smile. "I had to make sure the Once and Future King had survived without me."

"Well, it was touch and go there for a bit. But I made it."

"Barely," Merlin said firmly.

"Barely," Arthur conceded.

Merlin moved toward the door.

"Merlin?" Arthur called after him. Merlin stopped and looked back with a question in his eyes. "So...the vision that you saw…the future?"

"Yes?"

"Do we have much time left before the end?" Merlin's face grew guarded, and Arthur shifted tactics. "Forget I asked that. What I really want to know is…is it…good? The time we have left?"

Merlin smiled softly. "Yes, Arthur. It's the best time of our lives."

Arthur smiled in return.

Merlin turned to go, moving swiftly into the hallway, a shadow falling across his face. He closed the door behind him and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly

"Merlin?" came a voice from down the corridor. "Merlin!"

Then he was grinning again, moving into shaking arms that engulfed him completely.

"My boy. My _boy!"_

And Merlin...was home.

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A/N: Thank you so much to *all* my wonderful readers! *hugs* You bless me every day. And thanks to Eilonwyn and her amazing, totally mad beta skillz. *more hugs* This fic is so, so much better for all her input. Love to you all! Thanks for your support!


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